


In the Center

by VR_Trakowski



Series: In the Center [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, reposted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VR_Trakowski/pseuds/VR_Trakowski
Summary: Journeys bring changes, whether one likes it or not.  Originally posted in 2004.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Psyched, who put up with my insecurities and betaed most of this. Again, any errors are mine.
> 
> Spoilers: this begins just after "No More Bets" and will eventually continue past "Bloodlines". Anything's fair game.

"Oww."

"The painkiller will kick in soon," the doctor said with a touch of sympathy. He fastened down the edge of the wrap around Grissom's elbow. "How did you manage to do this?"

Grissom shrugged his other shoulder irritably. "I slipped."

Warrick, looming in the doorway of the ER cubicle, snorted. "At least you didn't contaminate the evidence, boss." He folded his arms and returned an amused look for Grissom's glare. "That pop when your elbow went out, though, that was so wrong."

Grissom sighed. "Don't remind me." At least the doctor had been able to put it back in joint with a minimum of work. He gave Warrick a pointed look. "You really should be processing that scene. The uniform could have brought me in."

"Nick can handle it," Warrick countered easily. "Besides, the girls would have killed me if I hadn't stuck with you."

Grissom's lips twitched, his humor starting to return as the painkiller took effect. "Don't let them hear you call them that."

Warrick snorted again. "I'm not stupid."

The doctor, who looked younger than either CSI, chuckled. "Well, you're driving him home," he informed Warrick. Turning to Grissom, he handed over a sheet of paper. "You shouldn't have any real problems, but that is going to hurt for a few days. The prescription will help; you can get it filled at the hospital pharmacy, or wherever you usually go."

"Thanks," Grissom said shortly, getting to his feet. The bruises from his fall were making themselves felt.

The doctor gave them a cheerful wave and disappeared back into the controlled chaos of the ER. Warrick felt for his keys. "Ready to go?"

"More than," Grissom answered. Warrick carefully did not offer any help as his superior limped out of the cubicle; Grissom wasn't badly hurt, and Warrick didn't want to set off his temper. The two men made their way back to the SUV, and without comment, Warrick helped Grissom fasten his seatbelt when his immobilized left arm couldn't reach.

"Where do you want to go to get your prescription filled?" Warrick asked as he pulled out onto the road.

Grissom's eyes were closed and he was leaning back against the headrest. "The pharmacy on Addison Road will do."

At the next stoplight, Warrick took the opportunity to study his supervisor's unguarded face in the harsh glare of a streetlight. The lines in Grissom's face were deepened by pain, but Warrick could see sorrow there too. He wondered bleakly why the older man put himself through so much, denied himself the possibilities that life offered. And he wondered how much longer Grissom could go on this way. Or Sara.

 _What's going to happen when she finally gives up? She might have already. What's it going to do to him when she leaves?_ Warrick knew she would eventually. She was too strong a spirit to stay tied forever to an impossibility. He dreaded the thought of what it would do to Grissom. _But he'll have nobody but himself to blame._

* * *

Grissom sighed, and dropped yet another piece of paper into his out--box. _One thing about being unable to work a scene----at least I'm getting caught up on this!_ The thought wasn't much comfort, though. Paperwork bored him, but without both arms functional he was limited to supervising and the occasional piece of advice. He almost wished that it had been his right elbow...though on reflection, he knew he would have gone crazy inside of two nights with nothing to do at all. One shift off of work was all he'd been able to manage, and now three shifts of little besides pushing paper had almost cleared his desk.

Grissom glanced up in time to see Sara stride by outside his office window. She was studying a printout and didn't look up, and his chest ached a little as he watched her vanish. _Time was, she would have at least looked up and waved._

He wondered wearily how things had gotten so strained between them. He'd been trying to repair their friendship, at least, but Sara had greeted his tentative overtures over the past few months with polite, distant puzzlement. _As though she doesn't believe I'm trying to be anything but professional._ He grimaced, and leaned back in his chair, his elbow twinging in its sling. _Maybe she doesn't. I wouldn't blame her._

He still ached over that stilted conversation in Sam Braun's limousine. The decision had made sense to him when he'd made it, but he couldn't figure out how to explain that to Sara, not when she was so obviously hurt and angry over the whole situation.

He scratched absently at his beard. It was quiet tonight; Warrick had the shift off, since he had been in court the day before and was due to return the next morning, and Catherine and Nick were working on evidence from a multiple homicide. Sara was mulling over an older case that might be linked to a rash of burglaries; not exactly brain--stretching, but he was hoping her sharp mind might find a connection that no one else had seen. It was indicative of their crippled relationship, he thought ruefully, that she had accepted the boring assignment without so much as a frown of annoyance.

A rap on the doorframe made him look up. Nick stepped inside, holding a sheaf of papers. "Hey, Grissom. Cath finished the splatter analysis, and we think we might have something."

Grissom brightened. "Let me see." He stood and held out one hand for the papers, then dropped it as his phone rang. "Hang on a second. ----Grissom."

Nick had seen his supervisor in a number of stressful situations, but had never seen him react like this. The older man grew so pale that Nick thought he was about to be sick; Grissom swayed, then caught himself and widened his stance for balance. "Yes," he said tersely. "Yes. All right. No, as soon as possible. I'll let you know when."

He hung up the phone, and his stare went over Nick's shoulder, blank and far away. "Grissom?" Nick ventured, alarm knotting inside him. "You okay?"

Grissom blinked, and his gaze returned to Nick. "What?" he asked, his voice almost absent.

"What's the matter?"

Grissom shook his head, and sat down heavily, as though his knees would no longer support him. "It's...um. It's my mother. She's had a stroke."

"Oh, man." Nick checked the rush of sympathetic words; now was not the time. "You need to get out there, huh?"

"Yeah." Grissom reached mechanically for his Rolodex and flipped through it. "Will you do me a favor, Nick, and book me a flight to Los Angeles and call me a cab?" He stood again, and fumbled in his pocket and extracted a credit card from his wallet. "I'll...I need to get some things from my locker."

"Sure thing, Griss," Nick answered steadily, stepping aside so Grissom could pass. "I'll take care of it."

Five minutes later, he cornered Sara in the Drying Room. "Sar...we have a problem."

She looked up and raised a brow. "That doesn't sound good."

Nick grunted in agreement. The situation was bad, but he didn't have much choice. "I need you to drive Grissom to Los Angeles."

She blinked. "Care to repeat that?"

"His mother's sick. He has to get out there right away."

She muttered a curse, brief sympathy morphing into dry inquiry. "And the planes aren't flying?"

"You got it." He shrugged at her incredulous look. "McCarran's having some kind of terrorist scare. The whole place is shut down. He can't drive himself with that elbow, Sara, you know that."

Her fist clenched. "I'm probably the last person he'll want along, Nick. Why don't you or Catherine drive him?"

"Cath has to be in court with Warrick tomorrow, and I have that lecture at the high school to give. I promised."

"What about Brass?" she asked, a bit desperately.

"He's out of town."

She sighed. "Greg?"

"Yeah, right."

"Ugh." She rubbed her hands over her face. "All right. But you explain it to him."

"Great, Sar, thanks. I owe you one." Nick patted her shoulder. "Better grab your gear. He'll want to hit the road as soon as possible."

"Yeah," she said grimly, and brushed past him.

* * *

Nick had rather surprised her with his efficiency, Sara thought. Within ten minutes, he had arranged for their absence and promised to make sure that Grissom's bugs were cared for in his absence. When she brought her car around to the lab's entrance, Grissom was standing with Catherine at the door, a duffel at his feet. Sara popped the trunk latch and Catherine dropped the bag inside and slammed the trunk shut, then gave Grissom a hug before he climbed into the car.

"You'll have to fasten the belt for me," Grissom said without emotion as he shut the passenger door. "I can't quite reach."

Sara leaned over and took the buckle from his right hand, locking it into place. Straightening, she returned Catherine's wave and pulled out of the parking lot.

They had reached the highway and settled into cruising speed before Grissom spoke again. "Thank you."

Sara shrugged. "No problem." A lie, but a polite one. And, she admitted to herself, in the end she was still pleased to be able to help him in some small way.

It was the last words they spoke for the next two hours. Sara pointed the car west and let it tunnel through the night, racing the sunrise towards someone she'd never met, someone lying still in a hospital bed. After an hour or so she glanced over at Grissom; his eyes were closed, but she knew by his tension that he was awake, and she figured that his mind wasn't in the car.

When the first wash of pink and pearl showed in her rear view mirror, Sara began looking for a rest stop. Grissom opened his eyes when the car slowed.

"Pit stop," Sara said, a bit apologetically. "I'm not going to last another hundred miles."

He only nodded, sitting up a bit straighter as she parked. Sara got out of the car and took a moment to stretch out the kinks, pulling her arms high over her head and arching her neck back. Glancing over the roof, she saw Grissom rotating his head on his neck and grimacing, straightening his uninjured arm awkwardly. The two of them headed silently into the brightly lit building, blinking a little against the array of light and sound, and peeled off to their respective restrooms.

Sara took her time in the bathroom, running a brush through her hair and splashing water on her face. She knew Grissom wanted to get to his mother as quickly as possible, but fatigue was starting to dog Sara, and she needed to keep awake. Emerging from the restroom, she found Grissom waiting for her, and was surprised to see the tray he balanced in one hand, with two cups on it. "Are you hungry?" he asked, proffering the tray.

Sara snagged the nearest cup and inhaled the coffee steam gratefully. "No, I'm fine," she answered, touched that he had thought of this in the midst of his trouble. "Thanks."

Grissom only nodded, and set down the tray so he could pick up the other cup and follow her back out to the car. She pulled out the cupholder in the dash and helped him fasten his seatbelt again. "Do you mind if I turn on the radio?" she asked.

"No." Grissom picked up his cup once more and sipped at it. "Sara--if you need another break, just say so."

She bit her tongue to suppress the response she wanted to make. "Okay."

* * *

They reached the hospital by midmorning, having stopped only once more to fill the tank but becoming hopelessly snarled in traffic outside of Los Angeles. Somewhere in the back of Grissom's mind was the thought that he should have first directed Sara to his mother's house, so that she would at least have a place to rest, but the urgency that had begun when his aunt had called was beating in his brain, harder and harder the closer he got. Without comment, Sara dropped him off at the hospital entrance, and he strode inside, knowing without her saying so that she would find him after she had parked the car.

A few terse questions led him to the correct wing and floor, but his steps slowed as he reached the corridor. Fear and pain were gnawing at his vitals, and he almost had to force himself to the nurses' station. He cleared his throat as he reached it, and the young man seated behind the counter looked up politely. "I'm here to see Mrs. Grissom. I'm her son."

A flicker of distress passed over the nurse's face, cool and fleeting. "Mr. Grissom...I'm afraid I have bad news."

And the world was suddenly a cold, cold place.

* * *

She found him in the beeping hush of the ICU, alone in a small room...more alone than she had ever seen him, even though a still form occupied one of the beds. Grissom was holding the delicate hand in his, head bowed, and Sara knew at a glance that they had arrived too late. The body was stripped of IV lines and monitor pads; someone had taken the time to brush her silvery hair and draw the sheet neatly over her chest, but the soul that had inhabited the flesh was gone. Sara pressed her fist to her mouth to hold in the swell of regret and sorrow. The woman's face was serene and empty on one side; the other side was marred, as though gravity pressed harder there, and Sara knew it was the legacy of the stroke that had probably killed her.

Unwilling to intrude on so private an anguish, Sara retreated as silently as she had come.


	2. Chapter 2

Cellphone use was prohibited in the hospital, but the lounge outside the ICU had a bank of payphones, and Sara reported in to the lab, dialing Catherine's number from memory. The older woman would let the others know what they needed to know, and hold any other information until it was time to speak it. Sara promised to keep an eye on Grissom, hung up, and chose a chair that would allow her to watch the ICU doors.

After ten minutes, she got up again, and returned to the nurses' station. She had to know. "Can you tell me when Mrs. Grissom died?"

The nurse flipped open a chart. "About three hours ago."

Sara's shoulders sagged in an uneasy mix of relief and sorrow. "Thanks." She went back to her spot. _It's not my fault,_ she thought, feeling guilty just for thinking it. _There's no way we could have got here in time._ She wondered if anyone else had come to sit by the old woman's side, or if she had died alone.

It was almost an hour before Grissom emerged from the ICU. Exhaustion and grief added ten years to his age, and Sara rose and followed him without a word as he went to the morgue to make arrangements to deal with his mother's body. She didn't know if she was a comfort or an annoyance, or if he even really realized she was there, but she wasn't letting him out of her sight.

* * *

Grissom knew she was there. On some inner level, he was grateful for her silent presence, implying a loyalty that might or might not actually exist but that was nonetheless reassuring. Numbness was beginning to set in, and he was grateful for that too.

It wasn't a long drive to his mother's house. He'd briefly considered finding a hotel, but the shadows under Sara's eyes made him reluctant to put that task on her, and something in him wanted to feel his mother's presence before it vanished entirely. He fumbled with his keys, finding the right one, and pushed open the door to let Sara precede him.

The small house was tidy and filled with sunshine. Sara dumped their bags by the door. "I'm going to get some food," she said in a tone that brooked no opposition. "I saw a Chinese place just down the road."

Grissom nodded. He wasn't hungry, but Sara needed to eat. "I need to make some phone calls, starting with Catherine. I'll leave the door unlocked."

She disappeared, but Grissom didn't open his cellphone just yet. Instead, he wandered slowly through the silent rooms, breathing deeply of the warm air, wrapping himself desperately in the phantom feeling that his mother was just gone out for the afternoon and would soon be back to hug him fiercely and tease him with graceful gestures.

They'd told him that she had never regained consciousness, and he was relieved. She had not known that he was not there. He went into her bedroom, finding it as neatly kept as ever, the covers on the bed tucked in; he reached beneath one pillow to pull out the nightgown he knew was there. Pressing it to his face, he inhaled, smelling her scent, his oldest and most comforting memory.

A hot pressure rose in his throat, and he pushed it down.

* * *

When Sara opened the front door, her stomach was growling at the steam rising from the bag she carried. She found Grissom seated at the kitchen table, speaking into his cellphone, and he waved his left hand at her, a brief wiggle of the fingers poking out of the sling. She was surprised to see that the table was set. A pot of tea sat in the middle. Sara unloaded the food as he finished his call. "How's your arm?" she asked, washing her hands and taking the seat opposite him.

Grissom shrugged, bracing a carton against his sling and opening it. "I took a couple of ibuprofen. I'll be fine."

She nodded, pouring them both tea, since it required two hands to keep the lid on the pot.

They ate; or rather, Sara ate, and Grissom swallowed a few mouthfuls and pushed the rest around his plate. Sara didn't press; tomorrow would be soon enough to make him eat. "So, what's the plan?" she asked finally, when he didn't break the silence.

Grissom set down his chopsticks. "Sleep," he said. "You can head back in the morning, once you're rested. I can catch a flight home in a few days."

Sara sat back and raised a brow at him. "You know, Grissom, I have a lot of vacation time built up." Nothing about this situation was comfortable, but the strain between them seemed unimportant right now.

"Sara..." Exhaustion seemed to rob him of words to argue with her, and she shook her head.

"We can discuss it tomorrow," she said, rising and gathering their plates.

Grissom pushed back from the table. "The guest room is the first room on the right," he said. "I couldn't make the bed, but I put out some sheets and towels for you. The bathroom's at the end of the hall." He opened the refrigerator and started transferring cartons. "I'm sleeping on the couch, it folds out into a bed. Can you make it up for me?" The question was matter-of-fact, and Sara wondered if grief had swallowed up his pride.

"Sure," she said casually, opening the dishwasher and peering inside. It was empty, so she loaded it with their dinner dishes.

Grissom helped her unfold the elderly couch, since the heavy frame really required two people, and she made it up with brisk efficiency as he made another phone call. Stepping into the guest room, she found a neat pile of sheets, blankets, and towels on the bed, along with two caseless pillows, and her bag resting at the foot. Two of the walls were hung with abstract paintings, and while they were not unharmonious with the room, Sara wondered at them; they were not the sort of thing usually found in the small home of an elderly woman.

Pulling out her cellphone, she punched the speed dial. After three rings, a sleepy voice answered. "H'lo?"

Sara grinned at the far wall. "Oh, sorry, Nick! I thought you'd be up by now."

She heard the rush of air as Nick yawned. "No problem. My alarm'll go off in a few minutes anyway." He groaned faintly. "You got there, huh?"

"Yep." Sara sat down on the bed. "Don't ask me about Grissom's mother, though, that's not my story to tell."

"Gotcha." Fabric rustled, and Sara figured Nick was getting out of bed. "So you coming back tomorrow?"

Sara bit her lip. "I...don't think so." She hesitated, then went on. "Grissom wants to send me back, but I really think he needs some help." She grimaced; it was hard to articulate what she felt. "I don't even know if he has any other family out here, I can't just leave him on his own."

Nick made an agreeing noise. "Sorry it had to be you, Sar. I know you've been pissed at him for a while."

Sara blew out her breath. "Yeah, well...gotta take it as it comes, I guess."

They chatted for a couple of minutes about the case Nick was working on, and then she hung up, wanting to get to the shower so Grissom could follow her.

The bathroom, like the kitchen, had obviously been remodeled since the house had been built. The only indication of the age of its former occupant was a grab bar on the bath's inner wall. Sara washed off the long day in a stream of hot water, appreciating the water pressure, and pulled on the sweatpants and oversized t-shirt she'd snagged from her locker. She padded out into the living room; Grissom looked up from his phone, and she jerked a thumb at the bathroom to indicate that she was through. He nodded, and waved again, and she retreated to make up her own bed and fall into it.

* * *

When she woke, it was dark. Sara lay still, trying to figure out what had roused her. A glance at the red-numbered clock on the dresser told her it wasn't as late as she thought, only about eleven. A faint sound reached her ears, and she frowned. _What is that, a cat? Grissom didn't mention any pets._

The sound came again, and her blood froze. Common sense told her to stay where she was, her torn sense of pride urged her to pull the pillow over her head and pretend she hadn't heard it, but her heart ignored them both and forced her to her feet. Sara opened her door slowly, hoping it wouldn't creak, and slipped out into the hall.

A nightlight in the hall outlet gave her enough light to see the vague shapes of the living room furniture beyond. The sound was clearer now. Sara stepped forward, half-unwilling, and moved silently into the living room.

He was just another shape in the dark, curled up on the wide sofa mattress. Another sob made her shiver in response; it was a choked sound of hopeless anguish, of a child lost and alone and without a hand to cling to. Sara knew she should go back to bed, that Grissom was never going to forgive her when he realized she was there, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't leave him to suffer alone.

She sat carefully down on the edge of the mattress. He was shaking with the force of his grief, and without thinking, Sara put her arms around him and half-lifted him into her lap, bending over him and trying to surround him so he would know he was not alone. "Gil," she whispered as he gasped for breath between sobs, the unused name rising to her lips in the close-wrapped dark. "Gil."

His injured arm was held against his body like a damaged wing, but his other arm went around her waist in a desperate, hard clutch, and he pressed his face to her belly, muffling his weeping in her shirt. She kept one arm around his shoulders and stroked his hair with her other hand, rocking a little; not trying to soothe what was beyond soothing, only keeping him company in desolation. For a little while they were neither ex-friends nor a man and a woman, but just two people alone in the darkness. Tears ran unnoticed down Sara's face as she mourned a woman she'd never met, a mother who had raised the man she loved more than anyone, whose death had shattered his soul.

Eventually his crying slowed and his knotted muscles began to relax. He let go his grip on the back of Sara's shirt, and she felt his weight shift as he slid from pain into the deep sleep that comes when the heart can bear no more. For a little while yet she held him, running her hand slowly over his soft hair, savoring the moment with a strong sense of irony; but when she caught her own eyelids sliding shut she eased him off her lap. It would not do to fall asleep and have him wake to find her there; bad enough that she had done what she already had.

She drew the covers up to his shoulders, and on impulse, bent and kissed his temple. He didn't move, and Sara sighed and went back to her room, feeling coolness on her stomach where her shirt was damp with his tears, and realizing with a pang that his scent was all over her. A chilly impulse suggested another shower, but she quashed it--partly afraid she would wake him, and partly guilty with pleasure at the lingering remnant. Instead, she burrowed into her blankets and wondered what the morning would bring.


	3. Chapter 3

The rich smell of coffee teased her nose. Sara rolled over and blinked blearily at the clock. _Six-fourteen?_ She hadn't slept so long in months.

Sitting up, she eased out of bed, stretching muscles stiff with long travel and long sleep, and padded into the bathroom. It was still faintly steamy, and a comb lay askew on the side of the sink. Returning to her room, she scrambled into clothes slightly wrinkled from her bag, and mustered her courage to go find Grissom.

He was standing at the patio door at the back of the living room, staring out into the sunrise. He turned at her entrance, and while she could still see grief and weariness marking his face, he was standing straighter than yesterday, and some of the defeated look was gone. "Morning," he said calmly. "Coffee's in the kitchen." He already held a mug in his good hand.

Sara blinked. She had expected coldness, or even anger, but he seemed perfectly casual. "Thanks," she said, and went to fill a cup, pausing to get a better look at some of the landscape photos on one wall.

"Did you sleep well?" Grissom asked, following her into the kitchen and sitting down at the table.

"Very," Sara admitted, wondering if his question was a lead-in to the previous night, but he just nodded.

"Good." He took a sip of coffee. "There's cereal in the cupboard to the right of the sink, and the leftovers from last night, but if you want something else we'll have to make it or get it."

"Cereal's fine." Sara pulled out the box and raised a brow at the cartoon character on its side. "Your mother ate--"

She cut off the sentence, biting her lip and cursing silently, but Grissom only quirked his mouth in a sad smile. "Yep. Spoons in that drawer--" he pointed-- "and bowls over the sink."

Sara opened the cupboard door. "You want some?"

"If you don't mind."

She portioned out the sugar cereal and the milk, and they ate in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable. Sara shot a glance at Grissom, who was freshly washed to judge by his still-damp hair, and decided finally that he must not remember the previous night's incident. _Maybe he thinks it was a dream._

When they had finished, Grissom stacked his half-empty bowl in hers and took them both to the sink. "I have to go see my aunt this morning," he said matter-of-factly. "She's basically housebound." He ran some water into the bowls, then turned and leaned against the counter. "The arrangements are pretty straightforward; the funeral will be the day after tomorrow."

Sara folded her arms and regarded him. "Okay."

Grissom rubbed his face, looking uneasy for the first time that day. "Do you mind staying?" he asked abruptly.

Sara let her mouth curve a little. "Not at all. You're going to need a driver anyway."

"I can get by with taxis."

"I offered, Grissom." She cut him off before he could talk himself into sending her back. "It's not a problem."

He exhaled. "...Thanks."

* * *

Sara braked to a stop in front of the rambling, one-level house, which had a ramp instead of front steps. Grissom shifted in his seat, and Sara reached over to release his seatbelt. "Look, Grissom, I have some errands I need to run if we're going to be here a few days," she began, hoping to save him the awkwardness of introducing her into a family in mourning. "Why don't I go do them, and you call me when you're ready to go?"

He looked over, one brow arched. "You don't want to come in?"

She hesitated, taken aback. "I don't...want to intrude."

Grissom shook his head. "You wouldn't be. But you'd probably be bored; my aunt will want to talk about people you've never met." He opened the car door and got out. "Go ahead; I'll call you."

"You need anything?"

He shook his head again, offering her a faint smile in place of thanks, and shut the door. A tall young man was waiting at the door to the house, and he waved as Grissom turned.

The first thing Sara did was return to Mrs. Grissom's house. Grissom had given her the spare key as they were leaving that morning, not bothering with explanations that weren't needed, so Sara let herself in and began investigating the kitchen. It was fairly well-stocked, but she took note of a few staples the two of them could use, and made a list. Before heading back out, however, she took a turn around the living room, curious.

Here too were paintings, though of landscapes and people. There wasn't much room to maneuver with the sofabed still open, but Sara slid past it to run her eyes over the books and ornaments on the shelves along one wall. There were a lot of books--mostly mysteries, but with a scattering of other titles. Metal sculptures and framed photographs broke up the lines of volumes, and Sara smiled over one that showed a sturdy little boy laughing up at his mother, both sets of hands raised in precise form. It took Sara a moment to realize where she'd seen those hand positions before.

 _Ohhhh. That explains it._ Revelation poured over her, and she took the photo from its place to examine it more closely, seeing a message that she could not read. All the clues were falling into place. _His mother was deaf._

She stood for a long moment, reevaluating the changes she'd seen in him over time. Many things were clearer. _He must have gotten some kind of treatment--he hasn't had any hearing problems for months--_ She shook her head, hurt that he hadn't said anything. _But then...why should he?_

Sara sighed, and returned the frame to its shelf. Moving on, she found a long row of photo albums, and with a slightly guilty feeling she pulled one from the middle, and sat down on the edge of the sofabed to open it.

Graduation photos. Sara bent over the page, looking into the past at the beaming woman standing next to her gowned son, pride showing in every line of the woman's body. Sara slid the photo from the page and flipped it over; the date told her it was high school graduation, and she replaced the picture. Mrs. Grissom had barely reached her son's shoulder, even then; Sara guessed that Grissom had almost finished growing up, but his rangy form had not yet filled out with a man's heavier musculature. Here he was grinning at the camera, eyes alight, one hand holding the mortarboard and diploma both, the other arm slung around his mother's shoulders. Sara smiled back, wistful, wondering at the openness of his face. It had been a long time since she had seen him so free of care.

And then she laughed ruefully at the realization that at the time the photo had been taken, she had been a toddler.

She paged randomly through the album, seeing Grissom on the beach, in the living room; his mother was shown less frequently, but there were three pages of her in an art gallery in the middle, and Sara figured that she had either been a collector--which would explain the variety of artwork in the house--or an artist herself.

Putting the album back, Sara pulled out another, and then another, and gradually realized that the stocky blond man shown holding the infant Grissom in the first album and tossing him a ball in the second was nowhere to be seen thereafter.

Sighing, she replaced the last album and stood up. The whole exercise felt like eavesdropping, in a sense, and if she wanted to get her errands done she had to get moving. A thought struck her as she found her purse, and she pulled out her phone, glancing at her watch. _She'll be in bed...but I can leave her a voice mail message._ Dialing Catherine's number once more, she smiled into the phone. "Cath, it's Sara. I need a favor..."

* * *

"I never thought I would outlive her," the elderly woman said, her voice wistful rather than complaining, and Grissom made a soft sound of agreement.

"I don't think she did either, An'Marie," he said, using his old nickname for her and feeling a small pulse of pleasure as she smiled. "But you know it's how she would have wanted to go."

His aunt sighed. "You're right, Gil." She ran a hand over the arm of her wheelchair, a constant in her life for the last fifteen years or so. "She never would have had the patience to put up with this kind of thing."

Grissom nodded, sitting back on the couch. His visit with his aunt had not been as upsetting as he'd feared; the two of them hadn't communicated much since he'd moved to Las Vegas, but shared sorrow had somehow eased them into a closeness Grissom hadn't experienced since he was a teenager.

A knock at the door had him rising. "That should be Sara," he said. "I'll get it, Ted."

His aunt's grandson nodded and disappeared back into the study, and Grissom walked to the front door. Sure enough, Sara stood on the other side, looking a little apprehensive. The sight of her warmed his insides more than usual; her presence gave him a sense of stability, the reminder that his life still waited for him in Nevada outside this slow whirlpool of pain and bewilderment.

"My aunt would like to invite you to stay for lunch," he said quietly, stepping aside so she could enter.

He half-expected her to refuse, but Sara surprised him. "I'd like that," she said, equally quietly. "If it's all right with you."

He blinked. "Of course it is."

At that moment, his aunt came rolling into the front hall, and he turned. "Marie, I'd like you to meet my colleague Sara Sidle," he said, feeling a sudden rush of affection for both women. "Sara, my aunt, Mrs. Marie Braxton."

Sara stepped forward to put her hand in the wrinkled one held out to her, and Marie smiled up at her, pleased. "It's good to meet you, Sara. Gil speaks very highly of you."

Sara's shoulders stiffened a little, but she smiled back. "It's a pleasure, Mrs. Braxton."

Grissom watched them all in turn as they sat around the dining room table for vegetable soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Ted, tall and silent, kept shooting shy admiring glances Sara's way, his twenty-something ego too tender yet to do more. Marie engaged Sara easily in talking about her work, teasing Grissom a little about working nightshift, and Grissom could see that she liked Sara. Not a surprise, to him; Sara might not be a people person, but she could be warm and generous when she put her mind to it.

Sara herself was obviously going cautiously, feeling out the invisible relationships that stretched back into the past. She told a couple of stories about working in San Francisco and then set to work drawing Ted out of his shyness with casual questions. The young man blushed, but grew easier, and Grissom ate the last of his soup, amused. And was startled to realize that despite a lack of appetite, he had finished his lunch.

Marie only let them go when Grissom promised to keep in touch, and to his eyes Sara seemed more relaxed as she settled into the driver's seat. "Where to?" she asked.

"The funeral home," Grissom replied, and gave her directions. Again, she followed him inside, as though unwilling to leave him on his own, and again, Grissom was grateful. Having someone familiar nearby made the necessity easier somehow, though he did wonder why she kept bending over to peer into the coffins as though searching for evidence.

"What was all that about?" he asked when they were back in the car.

Sara straightened from fastening his seatbelt. "What was what about?"

"You were checking out those coffins. Are you in the market for one?"

He wasn't sure if she would understand the mild tease, but she shot him a mock-glare and turned on the engine. "Nope. I'm going to be cremated."

"So?"

Sara pulled out of the parking space. "Um, I'm not sure you want to know, Grissom."

All her ease had disappeared, and he was sorry. "Death's an awkward thing, Sara, but I won't be offended, I promise."

She blew out her breath, and her lips curled up a little, reluctantly. "There was a case a few years back where somebody found a naked corpse in a Dumpster, wrapped in plastic."

Grissom ran back over the case files in his head, but it didn't ring any bells. "I don't recall that one."

Sara shrugged. "I don't think you had anything to do with it. Anyway, turns out the funeral director was digging up fresh graves so he could reuse the coffins. Not too smart; if he'd had any brains he would have just reburied the bodies. I figured it out when I found hairs from at least four different people in one of the coffins on display."

Grissom had to smile. "You were checking to make sure this one was honest?"

"Yeah, kinda." Sara chuckled a little. "Suspicious mind."

* * *

The whole thing was very weird, Sara thought, and getting weirder by the minute. After visiting the funeral home, Grissom had directed Sara to a rather stony, secluded beach, and had politely requested that she let him walk for a while by himself. Sara acquiesced, dug out the paperback she'd bought that morning, and found a rock to sit on, but found herself unable to concentrate on her book. Instead she sat, alternately watching the waves roll in and fade out, and turning her head to find Grissom's slow-moving form as he wandered along the beach. The sun was hanging over the water, but a haze kept it from being too bright, and Sara realized that at home she wouldn't even be awake yet if she were lucky enough to sleep. Late afternoons in the open air had become foreign to her.

Truth to tell, she didn't really know what to expect from Grissom right now. _It's not exactly a situation that's come up before._ What surprised her, given their recent coolness towards one another, was the fact that aside from last night's plan to send her home, he had accepted her help without cavil or embarrassment--as though she were exactly the person he would have chosen to come along. _Though I know I'm not._

Maybe he was just making the best of a difficult situation. Sara dropped her book onto the shingle and set her chin in her hand, letting her eyes lose focus as she stared out to sea. Her thoughts returned, inevitably, to the night before, and she wondered again if Grissom even remembered what had happened. She'd gotten pretty good at telling when he was upset with her, even when he didn't want to show it, and as far as Sara could tell he wasn't. _Maybe he's hoping that if he doesn't bring it up, I won't._

Well, she wouldn't. Even without the embarrassment factor, that hour seemed an intensely private thing as well as an intimate one, something that words might spoil. _Just let it go._ She blinked at the setting sun. _It happened; it's over. Let it go._

"Not a good book?" asked a voice next to her shoulder, and Sara started, drawing in a surprised breath. Grissom sat down next to her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"Geez, Grissom." Sara shook her head and picked up the paperback. "How'd you manage to sneak up to me on _rocks?_ "

"It's a gift," Grissom replied nonchalantly, looking out over the ocean. After a minute he added, "This was one of my favorite places to come as a teenager."

"It is beautiful," Sara agreed, "but isn't it a bit rocky for swimming?"

He made a noise that might have been a chuckle. "I wasn't interested in beauty...yet," he said, and her jaw dropped. "No, I came here because it was a great place to find washed-up animals. The current offshore brings a lot of them in with the tide."

Sara closed her mouth. It had been a long time since he'd offered her a double entendre, and she decided that this one was probably a fluke. "Let me guess. Dissection?"

"Uh-huh." Grissom was still watching the water, looking almost dreamy. "Mom let me have the back shed for my experiments, rather than having them smell up my bedroom. I found a lot of interesting specimens here. Once I picked up a two-headed dog shark."

"Wow," Sara said, a little charmed at the word-picture he was painting. "Do you still have that one?"

Grissom shook his head. "The jar broke years ago, and the shark was too damaged to be worth keeping."

He fell silent, and for a while they just sat, watching the sun sinking into the horizon and the spread of impossibly delicate color across the sky and water. The thought passed through Sara's mind that she had often wished to be in just such a situation with Grissom, though with more romance and without the sorrow. But for the moment, they were at peace, and it was enough.

Dusk coalesced around them, and Grissom finally sighed, stretching out his legs in front of him. "Hungry?" he asked.

"I could eat," Sara admitted.

Grissom rose and surprised her again by holding out his good hand. Normally. back in their usual environment of strain and hurt, Sara would have ignored the gesture, but here and now, it seemed natural to put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. "There's a very good seafood place about a ten-minute walk from here," he said. "Or would you rather drive?"

"Walk," Sara said immediately. The last two days had been emotionally rough, but she was used to getting more physical exercise. She retrieved her purse from the car and tossed the book into the back seat. "Lead on."

Grissom looked at her a bit uncertainly. "Is that okay?" he asked. "I mean, there are other places to go if you'd rather have something else."

Sara grinned a little. "Seafood's fine, Griss. I do eat fish."

His face was still drawn with grief, but his small smile lightened it a little. "Okay."

With nothing urgent awaiting them, they spent a long time over dinner, comfortable silences interspersed with discussions about recent cases or Grissom's stories about the area. He didn't mention the reason they were there, but Sara could see it returning to the surface of his mind from time to time; his eyes would darken and his mouth would draw down, and she would pretend to not notice.

"Finish your fish, or no dessert for you," Grissom finally said, pointing to her plate. Sara arched a brow at him.

"That fillet was huge, Grissom. And you haven't finished yours either." She'd been pleased when he had actually eaten lunch, but his appetite seemed to have vanished again, and half of his dinner still remained on his plate.

He glanced down and shrugged. "I'll finish mine if you finish yours."

"You're on." She grinned at him again. The food was, as promised, excellent; she simply wasn't used to eating big meals. Carefully casual, she matched him bite for bite, and was satisfied when most of his meal was gone.

"No dessert," she demurred, when the waiter came back around, and Grissom shook his head as well. Sara looked around at the small restaurant, laughing softly.

"What?" Grissom asked, cocking his head to regard her.

"It's too quiet in here," she explained, amused. "No slot machines."

He didn't smile, but his eyes crinkled with humor. "One can grow accustomed to the strangest things."

When the waiter brought the check, Sara reached for her purse, but Grissom shook his head. "I've got it."

"Grissom--" she protested, but he cut her off.

"Sara, please. You're doing me a huge favor by being here. The least I can do is buy you dinner."

A strange pain welled up in her at his words; the circumstances were all wrong again, with things she had dreamed of happening for all the wrong reasons. But she masked the hurt with flippancy. "Well, since you put it that way."

Grissom shot her an odd look, but didn't dispute her words.

He drew in on himself as they returned to his mother's house, turning silent again. Sara wasn't sleepy, but she retreated to the guest room nonetheless so that Grissom could go to bed. She could see how tired he was.

The book she'd ignored that afternoon absorbed her for a couple of hours, until her eyes were heavy enough for her to shut off the light. To her dismay, Sara found herself listening for the low sound that had woken her the night before. But it didn't come, and eventually sleep caught up with her.


	4. Chapter 4

Sara was first to rise in the morning, and she padded silently out into the kitchen to start the coffee, sparing one wistful glance for the hump under the covers that was Grissom, and squashing the errant, wicked impulse to slide into the bed and curl up around him. Snagging her jacket, she picked up her shoes and let herself out of the house, sitting down on the front steps to put them on. A quick lap or two around the block would take up the time while the coffee brewed.

The morning air was cool and sweet, and damp in a way the desert air never was. Sara enjoyed her run, taking in the residential neighborhood and passing the occasional dog-walker or fellow jogger. The houses were not new, but the neighborhood had a comfortable feel of settled, middle-class prosperity, the sort of calm Sara rarely encountered in her line of work. Her run stretched out the kinks in her muscles and woke her up, and she let herself back into the house in a lighter frame of mind than she'd had all week.

"There you are." Grissom was up, dressed, and in the kitchen, and he poured her a cup of coffee as she came in. "I wondered where you'd gone."

"Sorry," Sara apologized, taking the cup. "I thought I'd get back before you woke up." She sat down at the table and took a sip.

Grissom sat opposite her, and Sara realized that he had not put on his sling. "Is that a good idea?" she asked, pointing.

He straightened his arm cautiously. "The doctor told me to start stretching it a little this week, but believe me, I'm being careful." He grimaced, and rested his arm gingerly on the table.

The overhead light flashed several times as the doorbell sounded. Sara looked up, startled, and Grissom rose. "I'll get it."

He returned a couple of minutes later bearing a large box under his good arm and looking mildly baffled. "It's for you," he said, depositing the box on the table.

"Oh, good." Sara took her keys from her pocket and used the edge on one to split open the tape. "That was fast. I owe Catherine a beer."

Grissom resumed his seat and picked up his cup. "What did she send you?"

"Us," Sara corrected, and lifted out a carefully folded, plastic-wrapped bundle. "Some more clothes, mostly." She set the bundle on the table and pushed it towards Grissom, suddenly feeling uncertain. "I told her we'd be staying for a couple of days, so she went by our places and collected some things."

Grissom blinked, and unfolded the package. It was one of his suits. Sara lifted out a plastic zip bag that contained a pair of men's dress shoes, and slid those to him too. When he remained silent, she shrugged one shoulder self-consciously. "This way you don't have to go buy something."

Grissom licked his lips, rose, and picked up the suit. "That was good thinking, Sara," he said quietly. "Thank you." And he vanished back towards the front hall--presumably, Sara figured, to hang the suit up in the front closet. Rummaging hastily through the box, she pulled out two more bags for him and retreated with the remainder to her room.

Half an hour later, she was clean and dressed, and ventured out, wondering if Grissom was upset with her presumption. But he turned a calm face to her when she reached the kitchen, looking up from the toaster. "What's on the agenda today?" she asked, dumping her now-cold coffee and pouring a fresh cup.

Grissom pulled two slices of toast from the machine, put them on a plate, and passed them to Sara. "Ted's going to come by and help me start packing up this place," he said, pulling a knife from a drawer and handing that to her as well. "I won't be able to get to most of it before we have to go back, but I can deal with some of the valuables, and he can work on the rest until I can arrange some leave time." He sighed and rubbed his forehead, and put two more slices into the toaster. "I'll need you to go get some boxes for us, but after that your time is your own."

Sara spooned out jam. "You don't want any help?"

Grissom pursed his lips, looking a little...vulnerable, Sara thought. "You're more than welcome to help if you want. I just--you don't have to feel obligated."

"I'm a good packer," Sara said neutrally, and bit into her toast.

* * *

Grissom just didn't know what to make of Sara. He'd spent the last couple of months trying to bring their relationship back on a more normal footing, only to see his gestures fall into emptiness, and he was beginning to think that he really had ruined everything. But the Sara who had accompanied him to the West Coast with brisk efficiency seemed to be offering him the silent support he needed, without demanding anything in return. He wondered if he should have said something else about the clothes, and her thoughtfulness; it had touched him deeply, but at the same time, the sight of the suit had reminded him why he needed it and how soon he would be wearing it, and words beyond simple thanks had failed him. Hanging it in the front closet had given him a few moments to compose himself. She didn't need to see him upset; it would only make things harder for the both of them.

The doorbell and lights pulled him from his reverie, and he left his thoughtful perch on the arm of the couch to open the front door for Ted. It occurred to him that Sara hadn't asked for an explanation of why the lights were wired to the bell, and he snorted to himself as he realized that she probably knew why already. _Not much gets past her, that's for sure._

Ted came in with a duck of his head. "Hey, Gil."

"Hi, Ted. Thanks for coming over." He waved the young man down the hall. "Sara got some sodas and stuff, they're in the fridge. Help yourself whenever you like."

"Where is Sara?" Ted looked around as they walked into the living room, a faint tinge of red gracing his cheeks, and Grissom had to bite the inside of his own cheek to keep from smiling.

"I sent her out for supplies. She'll be back shortly. You brought your cellphone?"

Ted patted the holster on his hip. "Grandma gave me a list of some things she wants if you don't want them, but I told her to keep the phone nearby."

"Good." There were things Grissom knew he would want to keep, but a lot of stuff was of no use to him, and he didn't want to get rid of anything that Marie might want. "I figure we'll start with the artwork; we can begin packing it when Sara gets back."

By the time Sara arrived, rolls of packing tape looped over her wrists like oversized bracelets, he and Ted had already taken down most of the paintings and photos and stacked them against the walls. Ted hurried to help Sara carry in the stacks of flattened boxes and the rolls of bubble wrap, while Grissom stripped the bedding from his sofabed. The wide mattress would make an excellent surface on which to pack the framed artwork.

"You still want to help?" Grissom asked her quietly as Ted went back out for the last load.

"Absolutely," she said cheerfully. "Where do you want me to start?"

Grissom pulled a key from his pocket. "There's a safe set into the floor of her closet. Can you pull out the contents and the stuff from her dresser for me, so I can sort it?"

She took the key. "Elbow bothering you?" Her eyes were sharp.

"A little," he admitted.

Sara muttered something he couldn't quite catch, and disappeared into the kitchen, reemerging a few seconds later with his wrap. "Do you need help with this?"

She sounded almost threatening, he thought, which was unnecessary, as he had no intention of arguing with her. "No, I've gotten the hang of it."

He fastened it around his arm as she went into his mother's bedroom, and then Ted came back in, and they kept going.

* * *

Three hours later, Ted was making sandwiches in the kitchen, and Sara wandered into the bedroom with two cans of soda, finding Grissom sitting on the bed in a flood of sunshine and sorting through various necklaces and other jewelry. His expression was haunted, but at the same time, Sara thought, he seemed to be remembering things that were good.

He looked up as she crossed the threshold. "Brought you something," she said in a neutral tone, and held out one of the cans.

Grissom's brows rose approvingly, and he took it. "Thanks."

When her hand was free, Sara stuck it in her pocket and came out with the bottle of ibuprofen. "Brought you this too."

One corner of his mouth turned up, and he looked at her over his glasses. She gave him a stern look in return, and he shook his head and took the bottle. As he popped it open, Sara sat on the bottom edge of the bed and looked at the sparkling collection spread out on the quilt. None of the pieces she saw were particularly expensive, but they displayed an elegant taste and a certain sense of humor--the silver pin of a cat with a fish in its mouth and a very smug expression was charming. Sara began to suspect she would have liked Grissom's mother.

Tilting her head, she peered more closely at the necklaces, then looked up at Grissom, who was tossing two pills into his mouth. "May I?"

He waved his soda at her in a "feel free" gesture and took a swallow. Sara leaned over and picked up a long silver chain. It held a delicately wrought pendant, a tangle of silver, and after a second Sara realized that it was a puzzle. Something gleamed at the heart of it, and she took the pendant in her fingers, touching it lightly, trying to figure it out. After a moment, though, she shook her head in defeat. "It's not meant to come out, is it?"

Grissom, who was watching her, looked amused. "Actually, it is. But it's very tricky. Mom loved puzzles like that," he said, surprising her, and leaned forward to lift the pendant from her fingers. Sara bit her lip against the reaction of his warm skin brushing hers, but watched as he manipulated the tangle with the same exquisite care he used on fragile evidence. After a few moves, the loops gave way, and a smoky pearl sat in the center of them on his palm. "She had to show me how," he admitted.

Sara shook her head. "That's amazing."

Grissom pulled the rings back up, twisting them expertly into place. "You try it." He held out his hand.

Sara shot him a glance. He was squinting just slightly, and there was a challenge in his eyes. She narrowed her own eyes in return and plucked the pendant away. It took her a little longer, but within seconds the pearl was free again. Wrinkling her nose, Sara enclosed it once more and held it out to Grissom.

He shook his head. "Why don't you keep it?"

Her mouth fell open again. "Grissom...I--I can't do that." She couldn't begin to articulate all the reasons why not.

Grissom frowned impatiently. "Sure you can. Marie's allergic to silver and her granddaughter's into piercings. I don't know what to do with most of this...at least one piece will have a good home."

She would have protested, insisted, but the grief and weariness were settling back into place in his face, and she couldn't stand the idea of making them worse by arguing with him. "All right...thank you," she said quietly.

* * *

Sara polished off her third slice of pizza and sat back with a sigh. "Did we get enough done today?"

Grissom shrugged, dropping the piece of crust he'd been toying with back onto his plate. "We made a good start. The valuables are packed up; tomorrow I--we--" he blinked apologetically-- "can take them to the storage unit after the funeral." Ted had taken most of the jewelry back to Marie's for safekeeping, though Sara had seen Grissom tucking a handful of small boxes into his luggage.

"What time is it at?" Sara asked, keeping her tone level.

"Eleven o'clock." Grissom stood up and picked up his plate, dumping the crust into the trash can. He'd only eaten one slice, but Sara didn't feel comfortable pushing him. _At least the beer has carbohydrates._ She took a swallow of her own.

"I was thinking we could spend one more night here, and then head back in the morning," Grissom continued. "If it's all right with you. If we get an early start and don't run into traffic, we can get home in time to get some sleep before the next shift."

Sara shrugged in turn, and set down her bottle. "Suits me." Her mouth quirked. "It's not like my boss is going to call me on being gone for four nights."

Grissom snorted with a touch of humor. "Very true."

He finished clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, and Sara put the rest of the pizza away. Grissom shook his head at the sight of the takeout remnants in the fridge. "Mom would have scolded me for that."

"What, the food?" Sara shut the fridge door and looked over at him. "She wasn't a fast-food fan?"

Grissom arched a brow at her. "Who do you think taught me to cook?"

Sara forbore to mention that she hadn't known he could, instead smirking at him. "You can't, though. And neither can I."

"True again." Grissom looked down at his arm, which was still wrapped, although he had not reassumed the sling. He said nothing more, simply walking out of the room.

Sara frowned as she watched him go, wondering if she'd managed to piss him off somehow or if this was a manifestation of grief. She puttered around the kitchen for a couple of minutes, starting the dishwasher and wiping down the table, but quickly ran out of things to do. Poking her head cautiously into the living room, she saw Grissom at the far end, sitting almost exactly where she had sat the day before. She could make out the edge of an album held open in his lap. Torn, she hesitated a long moment before choosing to approach him. _What's the worst he can do? Snap at me? I've survived that before._ But she was almost wincing in anticipation of the sting; somehow the last few days had eroded her hard-won defenses against him.

And yet, when she sat down next to him, leaving a few careful inches between, Grissom surprised her yet again by pushing the album over so that half of it rested on her lap. "First cooking lesson," he said, pointing to the page. And she had to chuckle.

Grissom was about five years old in the photo, she estimated, and was liberally smeared with flour all over and chocolate on his face. He was standing proudly behind a trayful of battered, haphazardly frosted cupcakes, his expression that of the triumphant conqueror. "How did they taste?"

His grin was wide enough that she could see it out of the corner of her eye. "Best I've ever had."

For nearly an hour they paged through the arrays of pictures, with Grissom reminiscing not so much about his mother specifically as about his life with her. He touched only briefly on the fact that his father was gone, telling Sara with a few oblique words that the man had vanished from their lives; later, his casual reference to his mother's deafness made her realize that he assumed she had somehow figured it out. _What a Grissom-like compliment._

He slowly painted a picture of an intelligent loner whose bond with his mother was intensified by her single status in a time when such things were rare, and by her deafness; Sara saw through his stories, told with his usual dry humor, to the young man who never quite fit in and eventually didn't much care that he didn't.

And then, halfway through one of the later albums, he snapped it shut abruptly and slid it back into place. "It's late," he said, but every investigative instinct Sara possessed told her that he was hiding something. "I need a shower."

"Go ahead," Sara said, pulling up her legs so he could slide past. "I'll remake your bed."

Grissom looked down at his arm again. "I think I can manage."

"I have to justify my presence somehow, Grissom," Sara said dryly. "Go on."

He muttered something under his breath and went to pull clothes from his bag. Reaching the hallway, he stopped and turned. "Sara?"

She straightened from tucking in one sheet corner. "Mm?"

Grissom's mouth twitched, and for a moment she thought he wasn't going to speak at all. "Will you come to the funeral tomorrow?"

...How did he do it? How did he find ways to steal her breath and leave her touched and aching? "Griss...I'd be honored."

He gave a slow nod and disappeared, and Sara sat on the edge of the bed, thoroughly taken aback.

Eventually, the thought surfaced that she owed Catherine _two_ beers for tucking in the simple dark suit and blouse, and the appropriate shoes. Half a smile graced Sara's face, admiration at Catherine's canniness. And then she heard the shower turn on, and impulse took over.

The last photos they'd looked at were a couple of shots of Grissom at work as a coroner. Sara opened the album to that page and flipped to the next page, wondering what it was that Grissom hadn't wanted her to see.

 _Or...didn't want to remember?_ Her mind wheeled a little dizzily at the photo that took up most of the page. It was a studio photograph, showing Grissom with his arms around a woman about his own age of twenty-something. She was pretty, fashionable in the style of the time; her back rested against his chest, and her arms were folded over his. Her head came to his chin, Sara noted, and her hair was raven-black, carefully coiffed and fluffed. Sara bit her lip at the light in Grissom's eyes, wincing a little for herself; her eyes narrowed, though, as she took in the faint cast of self-centeredness on the woman's face. Grissom looked happy, completely in love, but his depth of adoration was missing from her expression.

There were a few more photos of the two of them, casual ones; there were also blank spaces, as though some photos had been removed. Again, Sara slid a picture free and flipped it over, but it too was blank. None of them listed the woman's name.

Sara hissed a little in frustration with her awakened curiosity, and replaced the album. It was the second-to-last one, but she didn't have time to look at the last one if she didn't want Grissom to catch her. Moving rapidly, she finished remaking his bed and escaped to her room. Flopping onto the bed and staring at the ceiling, she ran the entire evening over in her head; the civility of supper, a brief bout of teasing, Grissom's unexpected reminiscing. _And how hard was that for him, I wonder? He almost never says anything about his past, even when it's relevant to a case. Why now?_ Maybe it was just the circumstances. _Maybe he just needed to remember._

Except for the mysterious woman. Catherine had said something once about Grissom getting burned, and Sara wondered if that was the person who had hurt him.


	5. Chapter 5

Grissom was silent the next morning, eating nothing and barely even touching his coffee. Sara finished off the cereal without trying to make him talk, and wondered again at an elderly woman loving a product geared towards children. They separated to dress, and met again at the car, Grissom providing terse directions.

The church wasn't far. It was a glorious day, full of sunlight and a gentle wind, and when Sara entered the church behind Grissom she found the sanctuary beyond to be a blaze of colored light as the sun poured in through the stained glass windows. The closed coffin sat at the front, between the pews and the steps leading up to the altar, and there were flowers everywhere. They were early, on purpose, and Grissom immediately went off to one side for a low-voiced discussion with the waiting priest, leaving Sara standing in the aisle and feeling awkward. _Maybe I should have stayed in the car..._

For lack of anything else to do, Sara sat down a few rows back from the front and looked around. There were the usual smaller niches off the sanctuary with statues and candles; the lines of the building were clean, and the small place was filled with light.

The priest strode off, and Sara turned to look over at Grissom, only to see him staring at the coffin bleakly, his face stark. Instinct kicked in again, and Sara rose and went out the far end of the pew, heading in the same direction as the priest. Grissom's head didn't turn as she passed, and she was grateful. He didn't need anyone around just then.

The side door through which the priest had gone gave out onto a narrow corridor with other doors opposite. Two of them were restrooms, and Sara shrugged and went into the ladies'. She could waste a little time brushing her hair, at least.

When she emerged a few minutes later, every hair in place, Sara almost ran into the priest. They both stepped back, murmuring apologies, and he gave her a warm smile. "Ms. Sidle, I presume?"

He was about Grissom's age, but taller, and balding, and thin almost to the point of cadaverousness; he exuded cheerfulness and the sort of stability that Sara had come to associate with trustworthy people, the same solid reliability that Brass wore. She gave him a wry smile and offered her hand. "Guilty as charged."

His grip was cool and firm. "I'm Father Tallison. It's very good of you to help out like this."

Sara shrugged, uncomfortable. "Luck of the draw, really. If things had been a little different, it would have been one of the others."

"Another of your colleagues?"

"Yeah." She shifted her purse from one shoulder to the other. "Grissom might have been more comfortable with one of them, actually."

The priest gave her a long look, kind and piercing. "I very much doubt that." Sara's brows went up at the implication, and Tallison laughed. "He hasn't been talking about you, if that's what you're thinking. But the very fact that he asked you to come this morning shows that he thinks a great deal of you."

He began walking back down the corridor, and perforce Sara went with him. "Besides, Robin mentioned you a couple of times, which meant that he must have talked about you to her."

Sara bit back the query just in time to save herself embarrassment. _He must mean Grissom's mother. Now that's a name I haven't heard in a while._ "Well, we've known each other a long time."

Tallison pulled open the door through which they'd entered and ushered her back out into the sanctuary. A few people were already gathering near the back, but there was no sign of Grissom.

"The front right pew is reserved for family," Tallison said in an undertone. "You can go ahead and sit down there if you like. Gil's probably out greeting people."

Sara blinked at the image of the reserved Dr. Grissom in some kind of receiving line, and didn't bother to point out that she wasn't family. Tallison hurried off again, and Sara headed towards the back of the church, tucking herself in a corner near the rear pews to people-watch. The church filled up fairly quickly, and the crowd was quieter than usual, even for a funeral; Sara noted that many of them were using sign language. _Makes sense. Mrs. Grissom was deaf for at least forty years, if not longer; she must have been part of the local Deaf community._

The church was almost full when Sara spotted Ted wheeling in his grandmother; they were followed by a couple a little older than Grissom, and a young woman with dyed black hair and a pierced lip. They filed up to the front, the chair fitting neatly in at a space at the end of the pew, but no one else sat with them, and Sara guessed that Grissom didn't have much family.

Sara looked around and realized that there were few seats left, and decided she had better claim one before the people still coming in took them all. Choosing one on the aisle, she moved towards it, only to have her hand taken in a warm clasp before she reached it. _What the--_

Startled, she looked over to see Grissom. He didn't look at her, but his fingers laced into hers and he kept walking towards the front. Taken aback, Sara went along.

They sat at the aisle end of the pew, just down from Marie and her family; Grissom kept hold of her hand. Sara let him, uncertain as to why he seemed to feel the need, and a small part of her rather guiltily luxuriated in the touch.

The service was solemn, but not somber. When Tallison emerged to begin it, he was accompanied by a young woman in a dark blue dress, who stood to one side of the altar and interpreted the songs with graceful gestures; Tallison signed along with his liturgy, and Sara was able to catch maybe one sign in six. The songs were printed in the bulletin, which was fortunate for Sara, since Grissom did not relinquish her hand so she could hold a hymnbook. She sang; he did not; and they stood and sat as directed, as the priest spoke the ancient words of death and life and the organ poured forth music that many of the worshipers could not hear.

A few people came up in turn to speak about Mrs. Grissom, with the young woman interpreting to sign or voice as needed, and Sara learned that Grissom's mother had been a generous and intelligent soul who had survived difficult times to run a successful art gallery. An outline formed in her mind of someone giving and strong, with a deep sense of humor, and Sara's suspicion that she would have liked Mrs. Grissom grew to a near-certainty. At times during the monologues, Grissom's grip would tighten, though when Sara risked a glance at him his face showed nothing but a clenched jaw.

But finally he let her go as the last speaker stepped down, and rose himself to walk to the podium. Sara sat up a little straighter as he began to speak, for he was also signing. Her mind raced as she automatically tried to match the signs with his words, but at the same time she was listening.

"My mother was a strong woman," Grissom said, looking thoughtfully out over the heads of the listeners. "That's been said already, but it bears repeating. She was strong in a time that expected a woman to need a man to lean on, and she was strong through a change that could have destroyed her.

"But she was also a dreamer. She looked at the world and envisioned what could be--both in terms of life, and of art. That's why she ran a gallery--she saw the potential in people, and wanted to encourage it. She looked at me, and saw what I could be, and told me to go ahead and achieve it, even if it meant that her back shed was filled with bugs and semi-preserved dissections." He gave the crowd a small half-smile as a faint wave of amusement rustled through, and Sara realized that he was treating his speech as though he were lecturing--speaking about a passion, but at one remove, so as to remain in control.

"She took a change that could have been a tragedy, and turned it into a gift." Grissom nodded to his audience in salute to the Deaf members. "She taught me that being Deaf doesn't mean being handicapped, and that being different isn't always a bad thing.

"I don't know if she'd be entirely happy with me right now. You know mothers; they always want more for their children." A raised brow, and another whisper of laughter. "But I know she was proud of me, and that was one of the best gifts I could give her, the gift of proving that her faith in me was not misplaced.

"She was a woman of strength, and courage, and she lived a full and fruitful life. I know she would have chosen a quick death over a lingering one, and I imagine that all in all, she's pretty satisfied." His mouth twisted in wry acknowledgement, and he lowered his hands and stepped down from the podium, resuming his seat at Sara's side.

She looked over as the priest moved forward to finish the service. Grissom was pale again, and his hands were clenched as they rested on his thighs. Sara reached over and took his near hand in hers, wrapping her fingers around his and forcing them open so that she could clasp his hand properly.

She didn't have to try very hard. Sara could feel the tremor in his fingers as his grip tightened again, and she ran her thumb over his, trying to soothe. And then the final hymn was over, and the crowd began to file out.

Grissom released her again as they made their slow way out of the church, but he kept reaching out to cup her elbow or touch her back, to keep her with him, and she took care not to stray. Part of her wondered what Grissom's family thought of his behavior, but she didn't care much; as long as her presence helped him in some way, stay she would.

In the space outside the sanctuary, his family split off and away. "We're meeting for lunch at Marie's before the interment," Grissom told Sara quietly, and she nodded, and then inhaled when his grip on her elbow abruptly tightened. His gaze was fixed across the room, and Sara frowned, wondering what he saw in the threesome of Deaf people signing to one another. Then one of them turned a little, and she knew.

The woman was older and plumper, and her hair was silver-streaked and pulled back in a chignon, but it was the same face from the studio photograph in Mrs. Grissom's album. Sara turned to Grissom, planning an innocent question as to why he was holding her arm so hard, but just then his grip loosened and his lips turned up in a sad smile. Moving his hand to the small of her back again, Grissom guided her out into the sunlight, leaving the trio behind.

* * *

The luncheon passed in a kind of fog. The whole morning had seemed surreal, Grissom thought as he stared at the sandwich he wasn't eating; not blurred, exactly, but with certain moments standing out with extreme clarity while others vanished almost completely. _For instance, I can't remember a word I said during the service._

Sara's hand, however, had been a steadying constant. He hadn't even considered that she might pull away; in the midst of his stress, he had reached for her, and she had not failed him. She had even moved to take his hand again, not allowing him to withdraw into himself. Grissom knew he needed to think about that, but this wasn't the time.

"At least have something to drink." Marie's soft voice broke into his thoughts, and he looked up. His aunt lifted a glass from the cupholder on her wheelchair and held it out, and a small smile fought its way onto his lips.

"Aren't I a little old for milk?"

Marie shrugged, brief humor warring with the sorrow in her eyes. "If you won't eat--"

He took the glass. "Maybe I should demand a cookie to go with it."

She sniffed in mock outrage. "Drink it, or I'll call your friend over to make you."

Grissom raised the glass in a salute and took a swallow, wondering how his aunt could encapsulate so much of his relationship with Sara in so few words...and how she had observed so much. Sara was certainly acting as a friend, at least, and Marie had her pegged as someone who would be willing to bully Grissom into doing something.

He looked around. Sara was leaning elegantly against a doorframe, holding a plate and talking with Ted. He didn't wonder at how quickly she'd charmed the young man; after all, she'd done it to him too.

And then loss crashed in on him again, and he set the milk aside.

* * *

Robin Grissom was laid to rest in a green and sunny spot, surrounded by her small family and one woman who again felt herself an outsider, if a welcomed one. Grissom guided Sara over the lush grass to the open grave, but did not take her hand again, and six people stood and one sat as Father Tallison conducted the brief interment service over the coffin. Its rich wood shone in the sunlight; the wind was full of the scent of trees, and birds were singing somewhere. Sara thought that the cemetery looked like anything but a place of death.

When it was over, the small group turned away, Ted's father wrestling Marie's wheelchair back towards the pavement, but Grissom lingered, and Sara halted a few yards away, unwilling either to disturb him or to leave him. She folded her arms and turned away a little to give him some privacy, but out of the corner of her eye she saw him place a hand on the coffin for a long moment, then make two simple gestures. Her heart broke when the wind brought her the sound of his voice accompanying the signs.

"'Bye, Mom."


	6. Chapter 6

When Grissom opened his eyes, there was ocean in front of them. He blinked a couple of times and looked around, bemused to find himself seated in the passenger seat of Sara's car. It was parked at the beach he'd shown her, and the lowering sun was warming the car while the open doors brought in a breeze to counteract the heat.

He took off his seatbelt and then his tie. Movement caught his gaze, and he looked out to see Sara, skirt bunched up a little, wading gingerly in the surf. Her shoes sat unoccupied above the waterline.

Grissom got out of the car and stretched, careful of his tender elbow, feeling oddly at peace after his inadvertent nap. The ordeal was over, and while grief still gnawed at him, its teeth were not as sharp. He set off across the stony ground towards the water.

Sara looked up when he was about halfway there, and waved, turning back towards the shore. "This isn't a very good wading beach," she said wryly. "But going barefoot's safer than my shoes."

Grissom glanced back at the rather forlorn high heels. "Without a doubt."

"You hungry?" Sara didn't meet his eyes, instead walking past to scoop up her footwear. "I got us a picnic."

Grissom followed, bemused at her foresight.

They sat at a battered picnic table and shared the sodas and sandwiches. Grissom still wasn't very hungry, but the idea of food was no longer revolting, and he managed to eat three halves and a few potato chips, feeding the rest of the chips to an opportunistic gull who happened by.

The two of them sat for a little while in silence, again watching the sun set. Eventually Grissom noticed the goosebumps on Sara's arms, so he stripped off his coat and passed it over the table to her. She pursed her lips, and for a second he thought she would refuse, but then she draped it over her shoulders and gave him a little smile, and he turned back to the water.

The sun slipped entirely away, and Sara sighed. "If we're going to get that stuff into storage, Griss, we'd better get moving."

Grissom shook his head. "I'll ask Ted or his dad to do it. I'm too tired."

He was. Something in him acknowledged that his mother's death was in the proper order of things, that it was right that a son should outlive his parent, rather than the other way around. But another part of him was still wailing faintly in bewilderment and loss that his deepest mainstay was gone.

"I don't know what I would have done without you this week, Sara," he said; simple truth.

She shrugged, again not looking at him. "You would have managed."

 _I wonder._ "Nevertheless, I'm glad you're here." He pushed to his feet and began gathering up their supper debris.

* * *

Sara spent a long time in the shower that night, letting the hot water unknot her tight muscles, turning over the day's events in her head. _It's a good thing we're going home tomorrow,_ she admitted. _I don't think I could take much more of this._

All the little sweetnesses she knew Grissom was capable of; the concern he'd once displayed; the glimpses of the man she knew was all but invisible behind his mask--they had been a forbidden feast for her. She could no more have turned him away in his need than she could stop caring about him, and she had tasted each touch, each look, each concession with greedy, wistful hunger. _But it's all going to end as soon as we get back to Vegas._ Grissom would retreat again, and they would go back to their ruined friendship, only this time she would know--just a little--of what she was missing.

Emerging from the bathroom, again in sweatpants and t-shirt, Sara felt her stomach growl. The living room light was still on, so she didn't bother to be quiet. Grissom was sitting in bed, leaning against the back of the couch; a book was open in his lap, but he was staring into space instead of reading. He glanced up as Sara came in.

"I'm going to make hot chocolate. Want some?"

"Sure."

When she came back with the mugs, Grissom was paging slowly through the oversized volume. "Sit," he said quietly, and Sara handed him one mug and perched on the edge of the bed. Grissom turned two more pages and then angled the book so she could see the large photograph. Sara's brows went up as she recognized Robin Grissom, standing in the art gallery that Sara had seen in the photo album. Sara leaned forward and turned the book so she could see the cover; the title was "Modern Art in Los Angeles".

When she let go, Grissom pulled the book back into his lap, looking down at it and taking an absent swallow of cocoa. "Tell me about her," Sara commanded softly.

And he did. He told Sara stories of beachcombing trips and lessons in signing, going to Disneyland to ride the roller coasters and to Vasquez Rocks just to marvel; he described a cordon bleu cook who never could remember to not put drip-dry clothes in the dryer; a woman who dreamed of being an artist but who found her talent to be unequal to her passion, and so nurtured others' talents instead; a woman abandoned by her husband, who never quite trusted enough again to remarry; an impatient, plain-speaking, flawed and generous human being who had been the bedrock in Grissom's life. For a little while, Robin Grissom lived again for Sara, laughing through her son's words, becoming in turn a young wife, a single mother, a successful businesswoman, and--when her energy waned--a reluctant retiree. The cocoa was long gone by the time Grissom ran down, finally shutting the big book and setting it aside.

"I wish I could have known her," Sara said, the truth escaping her before she could censor it.

"She would have liked you," Grissom answered, and the gaze he lifted to her was complex with sorrow and regret. They stared at each other for a few long seconds before Sara dropped her eyes to her mug.

"What time do you want to get started in the morning?"

Grissom leaned over to pick up his watch from the bookshelf. "It's ten-thirty now. If we get up at four will that give you enough sleep?"

Sara shot him a dry look. "This is me, remember? I can drive twice that distance on less sleep than I've had all week."

Grissom snorted, and flexed his unbound left arm carefully. "Well, since I think I'm recovered enough to drive at least part of the way, have pity on my need for more than ten minutes' sleep."

Sara had to laugh. Standing, she gathered up their mugs. "See you in the morning."

* * *

Grissom sighed when he saw the small pile of cards on the clear space on his desk. _Catherine..._ He'd called her twice to check up on things, and she must have informed the lab about his loss. But it was a reasonable move, he conceded; his colleagues knew that his mother had been taken ill, and would naturally be curious. Emergencies left little space for privacy.

He sat down in his chair and pulled the little stack to him, ruefully cognizant that he would do almost _anything_ to avoid paperwork. There was a formal, bloodless card from the Sheriff, and another, much the same, from the lab director, in the name of the lab; now that he thought about it, the lab had also sent flowers for the funeral. One with a brief printed sentiment and a near-illegible signature was from Jim Brass, and another in a feminine hand was from Doctor Robbins and his wife. The card from the night-shift lab techs and David touched him unexpectedly; the verse on the inside was nothing special, but the little notes that they had added to their signatures displayed a kindness that their casual exteriors usually hid.

Cards from Warrick, Nick, Catherine--awkward and sincere, and he appreciated them. Nothing from Sara, but he hadn't expected it. She'd been there, and that was more than enough.

Glancing at the clock, Grissom realized that opening the cards had taken all his extra time, and it was now the start of shift. He put them in his desk drawer and picked up the sheaf of assignment slips, flipping through them and making decisions. He'd offered Sara the night off when she'd dropped him off that morning, and she had scoffed at him genially, so he expected the full complement of CSIs tonight.

Decades of people-watching stood him in good stead--the expressions on his people's faces were pretty much what he expected when he appeared in the doorway. Catherine's was casual with a hint of sympathy; Nick and Warrick glanced at him and away, with Warrick mustering neutrality and looking back; and Sara...

...Sara was watching him with quiet expectation, rather than the closed-off formality he'd gotten used to. It wasn't quite the warmth she'd first displayed, before things had gone so bad, but it was different.

He let his gaze flow over the room. "Thank you for the cards, people," he said sincerely, but went on before they could respond. "Catherine, Nick, you have a double murder downtown. Brass will meet you there. Warrick, Sara, you're with me--we have a possible suicide and a disappearance."

Sergeant O'Reilly was waiting for them at the run-down apartment building. "Sorry about your loss," he muttered to Grissom as the CSI got out of his vehicle, looking almost as uncomfortable as Grissom felt. "The body's upstairs."

It was definitely different. As the three of them moved in their practiced dance of processing, Grissom realized that the cool emptiness of Sara's usual professionalism--tempered occasionally by a brief flash of their old synchronicity--was once again filled. He wasn't quite sure what had replaced the hollow formality, but to him it felt like--

Spring.


	7. Chapter 7

Sara took another photograph of the body on the bed. "Not even close," she commented, and Warrick, who was picking over the array of items on the dresser, grunted.

"Suicide, my ass," he agreed. "Looks like somebody drugged him up and then slashed his wrists for him."

"They didn't even do it right," Sara noted, as the flash went off again. The cuts on the wrists were straight across, rather than running up the arms. "If the vic weren't unconscious..."

"...He could have got help," Warrick finished. He shook his head. "Amateur job, but personal. Look how deep the cuts are."

Sara slung the camera over her shoulder. The battered apartment smelled of sour garbage and stale cigarette smoke under the reek of death--the odor of neglect. Reaching into her vest pocket, she pulled out forceps. "The bed's a mess," she commented, "but it looks like there might be some transfer here."

As she bent over the blood-soaked mattress, Grissom came in. "There's only one other occupant, the victim's daughter. No sign of her, though."

Warrick turned. "Did O'Reilly talk to the apartment manager yet?"

Grissom set down his case. "He's about to. She's done being sick now. You have anything?"

The taller man shrugged. "Nothing much here." His wave took in the dresser and surrounding area. "Want me to tag along?"

"If you don't mind."

"You got it." Warrick left to pursue the questioning, and Grissom crouched down beside Sara.

"What do you have?" He squinted at her hands, then fished in his own vest.

"Hair," she replied, a bit absently. "Long, possibly blond under the blood. Can you--"

Grissom was already holding out the bindle, and she smiled a little. "Thanks."

It was easier, somehow. Their bubble of time out of time in California had changed their relationship yet again, replacing acrimony with something she couldn't quite name, something fragile and as tender as a new bruise. They hadn't spoken of that time--or rather, Grissom hadn't mentioned it. Sara knew she didn't have anything to say. The whole thing was so very _private_ \--a long, long look into a life and a past and a vulnerability that he would probably never have shown her if circumstances hadn't forced it. Speaking of it seemed like a violation of the trust that had spurred him to ask her to stay that first morning. She would hold what she knew in silence, and keep his secrets.

She lowered the hair into the envelope and sealed it. Grissom hadn't moved from his position next to her, but it wasn't like before--the high-wired tension between them was absent. The attraction was still there, but it was running below a brief, warm sense of comfortableness, as though they were back at the beginning they'd never quite had, of friendship between equals. Then David's voice reached them from the hallway, and Grissom stood, and Sara pulled her mind back to business.

* * *

 The victim's name was Bill Stevens. He lay still and pale on the morgue table, the Y-incision in his torso a stark contrast to his graying skin. The two CSIs hovered nearby, expecting confirmation rather than revelation.

"Alcohol and sleeping pills." Dr. Robbins shook his head over the victim's corpse. "Not enough to kill him, just enough to put him out. Cause of death was exsanguination."

Warrick and Sara nodded; no surprises on this one. Robbins picked up one cold arm. "It's impossible to determine for certain whether the cuts were self-inflicted, but my guess is not."

"Since we didn't find a knife near the body..." Warrick trailed off, and the medical examiner snorted.

"Nothing else out of the ordinary. A chronic drinker--" he gestured towards the pan holding the corpse's liver-- "and his lungs show he's been smoking for years, but nothing abnormal. Your answers lie with your killer, I'm afraid."

One corner of Warrick's mouth twitched up, a worried look, and Sara gave him a sharp glance. _What's he know that I don't?_ But she held her peace until they had thanked Robbins and returned to the Trace lab.

"Okay, spill," she ordered, shutting the door behind them.

Warrick blew out his breath. "Geez, girl, don't you ever let anything go?"

"Not when it comes to a case." Sara folded her arms over her labcoat, prepared to be stubborn, but Warrick shrugged.

"You'd have found out anyway when you read the report. The apartment manager says that people have called in noise complaints about Stevens yelling, and his kid yelling back--and in that area that's saying something."

Sara grimaced in agreement. "What's the girl's name?"

"Madelyn--and she's his stepdaughter, apparently, age fifteen. Mom's long gone." Warrick didn't exactly wince, but Sara could see the sympathy behind his eyes. "At the moment she's our primary suspect, so O'Reilly's seeing what he can come up with on both of them."

"And?" Sara narrowed her eyes at him when he didn't respond. "What's the rest of it, Warrick?"

The other CSI sighed. "The manager said that Stevens would beat Madelyn on a pretty regular basis." He licked his lips as fire leapt into Sara's eyes. "You gonna be cool on this one?"

Her mouth flattened. "I can do my job, Warrick." She spun, but halted when he reached out to grab her arm.

" _Sara._ " She hesitated at his tug, then turned. "I know you can do your job. Man, you can probably do it better than anyone here, except maybe Grissom. But I hate seeing you run yourself into the ground over these things."

The tension ebbed from Sara's stance, and she bowed her head. "I know. Sorry, 'Rick."

He turned his grip into a friendly pat. "Hey, no problem. Just...if you need to talk or something..."

Sara looked up again, a slow smile edging onto her face. "I'll keep it in mind."

"You do that." He let her go. "Now, how about those hairs you found?"

* * *

 Sara found Grissom in Bobby's domain, bending over a pistol with the ballistics expert, but when she rapped lightly on the doorframe both men looked up. Bobby smiled, and while Grissom's expression didn't change, his eyes seemed to warm a little. Or was she imagining it?

"What have you got?" he asked, coming around the table. "Thanks, Bobby."

"The hairs we found at the scene have no DNA tags, but they visually match the samples from Madelyn's bedroom," Sara said, handing him the report as they walked down the corridor. She kept her face calm, but Grissom's eyebrow went up as his gaze shifted from the papers to her.

"What else?" he asked quietly.

Sara kept a tight rein on the fury simmering inside her, and shrugged. "O'Reilly turned up a couple of child abuse complaints against Stevens. Madelyn got taken away from him once or twice, but the system sent her back eventually. The apartment manager says that Stevens beat her."

Grissom's mouth tightened, a brief look of disgust. "Have they turned up any leads on her whereabouts?"

"O'Reilly's going to check out her teachers when school starts in the morning, see who her friends are. She might even show up herself."

"Sounds good. Keep me informed." He gave her back the folder, and stepped ahead.

"Grissom." Her voice made him turn, and she schooled her expression to easy inquiry. _I'm just being a friend._ "You holding up okay?"

Hidden in the ritual question were a half-dozen meanings-- _I care about you, if you need help I'm here, you don't have to pretend_ \--but she doubted he'd pick up on any of them. Nevertheless, his face softened a little, from professional interest towards the grief he had hidden as soon as they'd returned to the city. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

It was a lie, of course, she could see that, but she also saw the calmness, the lack of turmoil. Yes, he was grieving, but not unbearably so. The raw wound of loss that had gaped that first night was closing. She gave him a nod, and let him go.

* * *

 Grissom shut the door behind him, his gaze falling almost at once to the small pile on his dining table. A couple of boxes, a few books--a handful of things he'd chosen to bring back from his mother's house. Loss weighed on him, and he made a weary mental note to schedule some vacation time so he could go back and deal with the rest of it.

He emptied his pockets--wallet, keys, beeper--and on impulse sat down at the table to sift through the books. One was the coffee-table art book that he had shown Sara...was it just two days before? His sense of time was off kilter, and the switch in his sleeping schedule wasn't helping. In his mind, he heard again Sara's husky request that he tell her about his mother, and he felt again the surprise that his words had come so easily. He'd never meant to speak of her; it had not occurred to him that Sara might be interested.

 _She was probably just being nice,_ Grissom told himself. _Trying to help along the grieving process._ And yet she'd asked intelligent questions, had actually seemed interested in his stories. For a moment he was back in his mother's living room, tasting cocoa on his tongue, feeling the warm presence at his shoulder, keen and kind.

She was such an unexpected blessing. _She always has been._ Grissom wondered if their involuntary trip was offering him a chance to mend their friendship. Certainly Sara was not so distant any more. _And as for...as for..._

He didn't complete the thought in words; it finished in brief images, imaginings that he stifled almost as soon as they formed. His hands sorted through the boxes and opened one, and he looked down at the contents, old and fragile-appearing. _Fragile in looks, but a core of strength. A lot like Sara, in fact._

He snapped the box shut before his imagination could get out of hand, but a small smile played over his face for a moment. And then he sighed. It was too quiet. _I never believed I could get used to having someone around so easily...but I guess I miss her._

Grissom put the box back, and picked up the top book--his mother's Bible. It was covered in grey leather, scratched and scarred from years of use, and the limp onionskin pages tended to fall open at certain places. He paged through it idly, old stories rising to mind as his eyes caught on names; Leviticus, Ruth and her faithfulness; 2 Kings, mournful Ecclesiastes; Amos and Zechariah and Matthew. He paused there, reading a bit, and his eyes narrowed over one of the parables.

When he closed the book, he sat for a long time, thinking.


	8. Chapter 8

Nick grunted with effort. "Hurry it up, willya?" he asked, his voice strained.

"Drop me and die," Sara returned, stretching further. Her fingertips brushed the rag caught on the rock protruding from the cliffside. "An inch more."

Nick braced himself and let Sara slide just a bit further down the near-vertical slope. "We could have waited for proper gear, you know," he commented glumly. His hands were wrapped around her ankles, white-fingered with the strength of his grip. If he lost hold, Sara was in danger of nothing more than a bruising slide, but he had absolutely no desire to face what she would do to him afterwards--and even less to face what Grissom would do to him when he heard. "This is probably violating any number of employee safety rules."

Sara snorted, finally grasping the cloth. "Okay, pull me back up. And stop complaining, Nick, I don't weigh that much." She winced a little, the bumps in the ground making themselves felt through her vest as she slid upward.

"You don't weigh enough," Nick retorted, standing and dusting off his pants. Sara rolled over and sat up, grinning up at him.

"Bag, please."

As he rummaged in his kit, Sara shone her light on the cloth in her hand. Blood stained one edge, and her grin deepened with satisfaction. A body dump in the middle of nowhere in the mountains, and yet they'd happened on a nice piece of evidence. "And in the dark, too."

"Huh?" Nick turned back, bag in hand. "In the dark what?"

"This." Sara took the bag and sealed the rag in it. "We found it."

His grin matched hers. "That we did." He gave her a casual hand up from the ground. "You still mad at Grissom?"

She gave him a spiky look, all surprise and suspicion, and he fended it off with one palm. "Hey, just wondering. You two seem to be getting along a little better these days."

"Yeah, well..." Sara looked down at the bag. "I don't know if anything's changed. But it's hard to stay mad, you know?"

"I get you." Nick opened the SUV's back hatch for her, then played his light across the rough ground once more. "Should we make another pass?"

Sara hesitated, and in that moment her cellphone rang. She pulled it out. "Sidle."

Nick watched as her face sharpened into concentration, and knew she was on the hunt. "Okay, thanks. It'll take us about two hours to get back...okay, see you then."

"Well?" Nick asked mildly as she closed the phone.

"Brass votes no," she returned, smiling again. "They've picked up the suspect in the Stevens murder case, and I need to get back."

"Cool." Nick bounced the keys in his palm. "Let's go."

* * *

"She was picked up at school," Brass told Sara in an undertone as they looked through the one-way window. "Claims she was spending the night with a friend."

The teenager in the interrogation room was sullenly ignoring the heavyset woman who sat next to her, though the advocate kept trying to speak to her. Madelyn had long hair, bleached blond, Sara noted, but her investigator's gaze also picked out the fading bruise on her arm, the stiffness of her posture that spoke more of rage than fear, the carefully scruffy clothing that was probably chosen with an eye to making her unnoticeable. Sara swallowed. She was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

Brass, who had taken the case from O'Reilly so the detective could go on vacation, held the door open for Sara, who took a seat across the table and a little ways down from Madelyn. He himself sat directly opposite, and folded his hands on the table. "Madelyn, I'm Captain Brass, and this is Sara Sidle of the Crime Lab. We need to ask you a few questions."

His tone was friendly, but all it gained him was a glare and a shrug. Brass sighed with practiced theatrics, but Sara felt an unusual tension emanating from him, and remembered suddenly Warrick mentioning that Brass had a teenaged daughter. _Huh. So he's not uninvolved either._

"We're sorry about your loss," Sara added gently, but Madelyn snorted.

"Good riddance."

Brass' eyes slid to the advocate and back to Madelyn. "Where's your mother?"

A flash of contempt, and a hint of old pain. "Hell, maybe. She left years ago."

"I'm sorry about that too." Brass was projecting calm sympathy, and Sara knew that it was in part genuine. The older man had a soft heart under his flippant surface; but it would not keep him from justice, no matter how bitter it might turn out to be. "We need to know where you were on the evening of your stepfather's death."

The girl shrugged again. "Out." At Brass' raised brows, she added "Hanging with friends."

"Hanging where exactly?"

Madelyn rolled her eyes. "No place. Around." The advocate leaned forward and said something in a low voice, and the teenager grimaced impatiently. "At school for a while for the game. Then we went looking for a little fun."

"And will your friends be able to corroborate your story?" Brass cocked his head a little.

"Sure. Ask 'em."

Sara slid a pad of paper and a pen across the table. "Names, please."

Madelyn shot her a look that was more puzzlement than annoyance, and scribbled down a few lines before pushing the pad back. Sara took it.

"Madelyn, we found evidence of you near your stepfather's body," Sara said, keeping her voice even. "When was the last time you saw him?"

The sound the girl made might have originally been a laugh. "He was sitting in front of the TV when I left. Drunk like always."

"Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might want to harm him?" Brass asked.

Another shrug. "I guess. Maybe some of the neighbors. He was a mean drunk." One small hand, nails painted a garish blue, went up to rub unconsciously against her opposite shoulder, and Sara winced, guessing at hidden bruises.

The girl's gaze swung back to her. "Wait a sec. What 'evidence'?"

"Hairs, covered in blood," Sara returned promptly. "They match hairs we found in your bedroom."

This time the sound was definitely a laugh, and not a pleasant one. "Sure you did. On his bed, right?" Sara nodded, nausea twisting in her stomach, and Madelyn's face screwed up into a look of petulant fury. "That's because he'd _rape_ me there when I couldn't get away from him!"

Her sudden shout rang out in the harsh room. The advocate put a hand on Madelyn's arm, only to have it violently shrugged off. "Don't touch me," the girl hissed, and turned her glare on the two across the table. "Nobody ever _listened_ to me. I had bruises, I had scratches, but they kept sending me back. Nobody would _listen_. And now he's dead, and you all are asking me questions. How _stupid_ is that?!"

Sara's throat closed in pain, and Brass' eyes narrowed against his own emotion. The elemental rage in the girl's voice left little room for disbelief. Madelyn jerked down the collar of her t-shirt, revealing a fading bite mark on her shoulder. " _That's_ what he did to me. I am so glad he's dead!"

* * *

"You okay?" Brass asked as they watched the advocate lead Madelyn away down the corridor.

"Yeah, sure," Sara answered automatically. She folded her arms tightly over her chest.

Brass sighed heavily. "I hate to say it, but that's motive," he said, his voice sad. "I'll check out her alibi, see what her friends say."

Sara nodded, still watching the thin figure. "All the evidence we have so far is circumstantial," she reminded him. "The sleeping pills were over-the-counter, and we don't have a murder weapon."

"And if what she says is true, then any DNA evidence at the scene isn't probative," Brass agreed. Sara cocked a brow.

"Given the state of the apartment, it wouldn't have been very strong anyway," she pointed out. "Any good lawyer could make hash of it."

Brass rubbed his hands over his face, which didn't erase the weary lines. "You'd better get moving if you're going to handle the rape kit."

She'd done it many times before, and while it never failed to outrage her, this one bit a little deeper. Madelyn was back to being sullen and uncommunicative, but she cooperated with Sara's directions, removing her shirt for photographs, her underwear for swabs. Sara swallowed back her own fury and coolly took photos of the bite mark, the yellowed fingerprint bruises on Madelyn's biceps, the other evidence of brutality. The investigative part of her mind was running through scenarios, theories, alternatives; they had only Madelyn's word so far that her assaulter was in fact her stepfather, though Greg might be able to turn something up on the bloodied bedsheets. They had no evidence tying Madelyn directly to the murder, but neither had the CSIs found any evidence of another person in the apartment, and police inquiries had located no one else in Bill Stevens' life angry enough to want to kill him.

The emotional part of her mind was mourning for this damaged young woman, devastated by her absent mother and the abuse from the man who was supposed to be her guardian. Whether Stevens had sexually assaulted Madelyn or not, he had beaten her, and the system that Sara worked for had failed her repeatedly. It was times like these that made Sara wonder why she bothered at all.

Eventually, Sara finished. As Madelyn pulled her shirt back on, Sara stripped off her gloves and spoke. "What happened to you...it wasn't your fault."

The sullenness lifted for an instant, revealing a startled look, but then Madelyn frowned contemptuously. "What do _you_ know about it?"

Sara's mouth quirked. "I know." She didn't reach out, but met Madelyn's gaze squarely. "Trust me, I know."

The girl's chin quivered, and she turned away, hunching her shoulders. "Don't be nice," she muttered. "It's too late for nice."

"No, it's not," Sara said gently. "Madelyn, I know you've heard it before, but there _are_ people who can help. If you want help...I can make sure they do."

One small hand groped for the tissue box on the table, and Sara moved it within reach, listening to the sniffle, watching Madelyn wrestle back the tears. "Go away," the young woman said eventually.

 _"Nobody listened."_ This time, Sara did, even though it pained her. She put her card on the table. "Call me if you change your mind."

No answer followed her out of the room.

* * *

Greg took one look her face when she turned in the swabs, and put on formality as a garment, not even venturing a smile as he accepted delivery of the evidence. He promised to examine the bedsheet, and Sara left him behind, dropping off her camera with Archie to be downloaded. Warrick met her in the corridor outside Audio/Visual.

"Hey, girl." His gentle greeting almost undid her, and she gave him a tremulous smile.

"Hey, Warrick."

He shook his head, brow wrinkling, and took her into his arms for a warm hug. "How're you holding up?"

She put her arms around his waist, holding in the tears, and luxuriated for just a moment in his caring. "I'm okay." His snort of disbelief made her smile weakly. "Really."

"Brass filled me in on the case," he said, and she lifted her head to look at him. "Tough one, huh?"

She grimaced and let out a breath. "Yeah." Releasing him, she glanced down at her watch. "I have to report to Grissom."

"He's not in," Warrick said. "Cath said he got a call and left in a hurry. Tell you what--" he looked at his own watch. "There's only ten minutes left in the shift. Let's you and me blow this joint and go get some breakfast."

His gaze was warm and kind, and she knew he would put no new burdens on her. "You got it."

* * *

Grissom was used to silence, the quiet of his home broken by music only when he wished it. But lately he'd been finding the quiet a little oppressive.

He sat at his table, staring at his laptop without really seeing it, his cheek propped on one fist. His usual afternoon routine included a second cup of coffee to sip while checking his e-mail, a leisurely process that eased him towards the worknight. But the list was shorter than usual, and he ran the cursor idly up and down the handful of message headers, half-looking for something that wasn't there. Finally he indulged himself, opening a folder on his hard drive and scanning the contents. A long list of files, tidily labeled with date and name. Many dates, but just one name.

He clicked on one more or less at random; it was two years old, but the moment he began reading he remembered the contents, the cheerful tone, the humorous story of a gallery triumph. Robin had embraced e-mail with enthusiasm, finding it a new and easy way to communicate, and while she hadn't written every day by any means, she and her son had frequent exchanges--sometimes long and rambling, sometimes quick notes, but always there. It had eased Grissom's guilt, to a degree, at being so far from her--though, he had to admit, she would have been furious with him if he'd given up the job he loved to be nearer to her.

But there were no more messages, just as the TTY machine on his counter would no longer be required.

Anger swelled in him, sudden and surprising, and he shut down his laptop with brusque movements, trying not to be upset. Trying not to be angry because she had left him. It didn't really work, but soon the surge of passion subsided back into grief, and Grissom stood to dump out his coffee and get ready for work. At least there he was distracted.


	9. Chapter 9

It was the gasp that did it.

Sara stared blindly at the curtain, and the dim movement beyond it. The faint, quickly muffled sound of pain, already lost beneath the rustle of cloth and plastic, replayed itself inside her head. Sara had already seen the victim, one Linley Parker--seen the bruises, the contusions, the blood...the blank agony in the eyes. And she really, really didn't want to see it again right now.

She turned away as Catherine came up. "I'm gonna...take the SAE kit to Greg," she told her colleague, struggling to maintain a level tone.

"You don't want to take the statement?" Catherine asked.

"Do you mind?"

Puzzlement flickered in Catherine's eyes, but she asked no questions. "No," she replied, and the nurse emerged with the kit.

Sara couldn't help thinking of it as running away, as she strode briskly to her SUV. But it was just one thing too much; one brutality too many, heaped up on the cases she couldn't forget, the ghosts that haunted the back of her mind and came forward when she slept. After Madelyn, it was just too much. Catherine could take the statement, and would do it well, and if for once Sara didn't want to throw herself into the center of this particular quest for justice, that was her right.

But it still felt like cowardice.

She did watch, later, as Linley described her attacker's face to the sketch artist. Catherine had said that their victim had been unusually calm during the statement, clearheaded, even dry. Now she sat sober in the glass-walled room, looking more pensive than upset, recalling details. But whatever elegance she put on for her job as a pit boss was gone, leaving her hair straggling and her face swollen. One hand played at her throat as though holding still was too much to attempt.

Sara stood, arms crossed, and listened. The artist was good, but Sara wanted to hear the details straight from Linley.

She didn't have to turn when Grissom came up to stand behind her. He didn't have to speak. She cocked a brow without looking away from the two women on the other side of the glass. "What?"

"How many vacation days do you have on the books?"

Sara cast her eyes up, trying to remember. Grissom had done some finagling when they'd returned, and her days in California had been put down as compassionate leave. "About...ten weeks, I guess." She looked over to him. "Why?"

"I think you should take a week or two," he said, his tone of voice making it a little more than a suggestion, and putting her on the defensive for the first time since they'd come back to work.

"I'm still on the case," she protested. "I just didn't do the interview for once in my life."

He nodded, pursing his lips and glancing away. Feeling a bit mischevious, she turned the question around. "When was the last time you took a vacation?"

Grissom didn't answer, and she looked over at him, unable to keep the slight hint of smugness from her mouth. "Never, right?"

She expected him to argue, but instead he just shrugged. "Okay," he conceded, and left her to her vigil.

* * *

The lights were going down. Grissom walked down the aisle as fast as he could without spilling his popcorn, and dropped into his chosen seat just as the screen flickered with light. The theater was almost empty, which was just the way he liked it, though he usually tried not to be late. _Nothing like a double feature to take up a slow weekend._ And to take his mind off the loss that ached so much. It wasn't silent film, but it would do. One thing about Vegas--there were films at almost any time of day or night, which made it easier on those working the night shift. Switching to a day schedule for just the weekend got to be tiring after a while. He'd have to do it for a bit when he went back out to California again, but that wouldn't be for another month yet.

The Russian film was subtitled and interesting, and Grissom munched his way through his popcorn, squinting at the letters on the screen and concentrating on the plot. Something kept nagging at the corner of his mind, but he didn't pay attention; whatever it was would keep until the film was through.

When the lights came up for intermission, he took a look around the theater. There was only a handful of people there, most of them further forward than he was sitting. Two or three got up, and Grissom's brows rose as one person several rows ahead of him--and the reason for his mental itch--suddenly became clear. He'd know that slender form anywhere. _Sara._

She edged her way to the aisle further from him and strode out without glancing over to where he sat. Grissom watched her go, remembering her mentioning that she went to movies, and wondering how they'd never run into each other before. And then he rose in turn to go out--he had to hit the men's room before the next feature.

When he returned, Sara was back in her seat, and he crossed over to the far aisle and paced down it towards her. As he neared, a gleam of light at the crown of her head caught his eye, and he stepped closer to get a better look. What he saw made his heart twist a little; not in pain, exactly, but in a sudden, renewed sense of the relentless press of time.

It was a strand of silver hair.

* * *

Sara tossed a kernel of popcorn into her mouth, idly staring at the blank screen and waiting for the next film to begin. It had been a while since she'd been to the movies, but the foreign double feature seemed like the thing to take her mind off the Stevens and Parker cases for a while. Movies did that for her, allowing her to suspend reality for a while, to give her brain and soul a break from the endless delving into other people's troubles.

Of course, these days she was going alone, which wasn't half as much fun as having someone along to discuss the plot with, but given the previous alternative, solitude suited her just fine.

"Mind if I join you?"

Sara's head snapped around, her mind momentarily stumbling over _that_ voice in _this_ place. Grissom stood in the aisle three seats from hers, head cocked to one side, watching her with mild inquiry.

Taken aback, Sara thought briefly of refusing him, but it seemed petty somehow. "Sure, if you want."

She expected him to sit one seat over, but instead he picked up her jacket from the seat next to her and sat in its place, dropping the jacket in the seat on his far side. She sat stiffly, uncertain what to make of his sudden appearance.

"Did you like the first film?"

Sara glanced over, but before she could answer the lights went down again, and she heard Grissom sit back with a contented sigh.

If she'd imagined the situation, Sara would have thought it would be impossible to concentrate on a movie, any movie, while sitting next to Grissom in the dark. But it turned out to be easy. Again, the tension went into abeyance, and they watched without words, only sharing a chuckle or a snort from time to time; Sara found herself grinning when Grissom made smothered noises at the insects in one scene, and wondered if he was pleased at the sight of them, or annoyed because they were not found in that location in real life. At some point she remembered her popcorn, and in ingrained politeness put it in the cupholder between them, and then was torn between amusement and annoyance when Grissom ate more than his share. She finished her soda and began sucking on the ice, and when she shivered, Grissom startled her again by fishing up her jacket and draping it gravely around her shoulders.

Unfortunately, the tension returned when the lights did, at least for her. Sara looked over at her unexpected companion and wondered what on earth he was doing there with her. Ease at work was one thing, and kind of a relief; his seeking out her presence outside of work was another thing entirely. _I...I wish..._ The thought was amazingly bitter. _I wish he wouldn't. All it does is make me think of what I can't have._ And once again she cursed the spark between them that had ruined their friendship.

Grissom turned to her, his face open and relaxed and his lips parting, but as he took in her expression the shutters came down, and he appeared to change his question before he spoke it. "What did you think?" he asked mildly.

Sara wrenched her mind back to the movie. "I liked the first one better," she admitted. "Romantic comedy's not really my thing."

They discussed the films in a desultory fashion as they strolled out of the theater, maintaining a careful distance between each other. In the parking lot Grissom walked Sara to her car; she briefly considered arguing, but decided to indulge him in his old-fashioned gallantry, thinking dryly that it was easier than a heated discussion. And it let her enjoy his presence just that much longer, even as she hated herself for it.

When they reached her vehicle, Grissom opened his mouth again, as though he were going to ask her something, then gave a tiny shrug. "See you tomorrow night," he said, and walked towards his own car. Sara watched him go for a few seconds, trying to fight back the ache in her chest, then got into her car. Maybe sleep would ease her.

_If I can sleep._

* * *

Grissom sat in his car and watched Sara drive away, and then just stared at his steering wheel, feeling depressed. _I thought we were getting along again._ He'd really enjoyed watching the movie with Sara, and if he'd had the occasional adolescent impulse to put his arm around her shoulders, it was easy enough to smother; he didn't want to shatter the fragile bond they were starting to rebuild.

And then he'd turned to her, and seen not enjoyment on her face, but pain. She'd hidden it quickly enough, but he knew it was there.

 _She doesn't trust me any more._ The thought hurt. Grissom knew quite well that Sara had little reason to trust him now, but in California he'd thought that the old link still held, that she still saw past his evasions and silences to the real him, the man who had once earned her trust.

_Have I really screwed things up that badly?_

Eventually he turned on the ignition. Sitting in the parking lot would mend nothing.


	10. Chapter 10

Sara was expecting Monday night to be awkward, but to her surprise Catherine handed out assignments. "Grissom said he'd be in a little later," the older woman explained with a shrug. "Something about his being called in on a dayshift case." She handed Nick a slip. "You get an assault downtown. Sara, Warrick, see Brass; apparently something's come in on the Stevens case."

"And what will you be doing?" Warrick drawled, teasing a little. Catherine's grin crinkled.

"I am saving the rest of you from suffering by taking a convenience store robbery. You may thank me later." She swept out dramatically to the sound of chuckles.

Brass was scribbling something on a report form when the two CSIs knocked on his doorframe. "Oh good, you're here," he said, waving them into chairs. "A couple of my boys were checking out Madelyn Stevens' alibi. You're going to want to hear this." The police captain set out a mini tape recorder on his desk; his grim expression warned them that what they would hear would not be pleasant.

The interviewing officer's voice identified the witness as one Jenni Nguyen, sixteen years of age, and Sara remembered her as the second name on Madelyn's list. Her stomach tightened as a high young voice laden with tears stumbled through a confused story of Madelyn leaving the game early on the night of her stepfather's death; a few hours later she had turned up at Jenni's house and demanded that the older girl hide the plastic shopping bag that Madelyn had brought with her, and say nothing to anyone.

Brass shut off the tape. "Madelyn should have picked someone else. Officer Quinn said that Jenni started looking guilty the second he showed up, and it only took her about thirty seconds to break down."

"What was in the bag?" Sara asked, though she could hazard a guess.

"She didn't have it." Brass' head jerked in his small exasperated tic. "She _said_ she stashed it in the shed out behind her house, but there was nothing there when Quinn went to check. We've got some uniforms canvassing the area right now." As if on cue, his phone rang.

The two CSIs exchanged glances and started to get up, but Brass motioned for them to stay. A brief conversation later, he hung up the phone. His face was still grim, but there was satisfaction there too. "Now isn't that convenient. A trash man just turned in a bag with a bloody towel to police headquarters." He stood up. "You two coming?"

The slender little man at the station didn't look strong enough to be tossing around laden garbage cans, but Sara noted the wiry tendons running up his arms and figured he was tougher than he looked. "I saw it when we hit Fifty-Third and Vine," he explained, naming an intersection two blocks from the Nguyen household. "It fell off the truck, and when I picked it back up, I saw all the blood on the towel, and I figured you guys might want to take a look."

Sara and Warrick bent over the bag, scarcely noticing the clinging scent of ripe garbage; their evidence had been placed inside a cleaner, larger bag, but the smell was persistent. Warrick pulled heavy forceps from his vest and carefully pulled up the top fold of the towel, whose original faded yellow color was all but lost under the rusty red-brown of dried blood.

"Did you look in the bag?" Brass asked, and the man shook his head.

"Nope. We were running late, and then when I got home I found out my sister was in labor, and I forgot all about bringing it in until now." He grinned, a happy look. "Twin boys."

Brass smiled back, genuinely pleased for a moment. "Congratulations." He glanced over at the two CSIs. "One of you want to get his prints?"

"Don't need to," the trash man said. "I was wearing gloves when I picked it up, and I put it in the other bag and never took it out."

Brass' brows went up. "Good thinking. But we'll need 'em anyway, just to be on the safe side."

Sara and Warrick traded glances, and she pulled off her gloves and got the fingerprinting gear from her kit. The trash man held out his hands obediently, and she was halfway through the second set of fingers when Warrick spoke. "Sara. When you have a minute..."

His voice was easy, but she could hear the tension underneath it. She finished with the trash man and sent him on his way with thanks, and returned to the two-man huddle over the bag; Brass stepped back as she reached it, and she leaned in. Warrick hadn't undone the entire towel, choosing to wait until it was back in the lab and in a more controlled setting, but he had pushed past the towel and the blood-spattered blouse within it, and his forceps now gripped the blade of a serrated kitchen knife, clotted with blood.

Sara let a curse slip past her lips, and Warrick shot her a sympathetic look. "Can't hardly blame her, if she was telling the truth about what he was doing to her," the taller man commented.

"Unfortunately, we have to," Brass said heavily.

* * *

"You want me to report in to Grissom?" Warrick asked when they returned to the lab, and Sara was sorely tempted.

"No," she said reluctantly. Technically she was the lead on this case, given that Grissom had withdrawn from it; though she and Warrick rarely bothered with such formalities when working together, it was her responsibility to update their supervisor. "I'll do it."

Warrick patted her shoulder and left to deal with their evidence, and Sara made her way to Grissom's office. The door was shut when she reached it--unusual but not unheard of--so she knocked.

There was a long pause, and then Grissom's voice. "Come in."

Sara opened the door, and stopped in surprise. There were two people in the room, Grissom and a woman Sara recognized as the president of the college for the Deaf. The woman swung around, her frown lightening only slightly at the sight of Sara. "Uh--sorry, Grissom," Sara began. "I didn't know you had a visitor." She gave Dr. Gilbert an awkward wave. "Hi."

"Ms. Sidle," the president replied in her muffled voice, her expression and tone both chilly.

"What is it, Sara?" Grissom asked, his gaze sharpening as he took in the stiffness of her shoulders.

"More evidence in the Stevens case," she reported. "It's in analysis now, but it looks probative."

"Good." Grissom nodded. "We should be through in a few minutes, and I'll come find you."

"Okay." Sara waved again and withdrew. _What is **she** doing here? Another murder?_ It took a lot to make Sara feel uncertain about her professional capacity, but Dr. Gilbert had managed it pretty well when they'd first met, lambasting both Sara and Warrick for their lack of manners. The fact that the two CSIs would not necessarily be knowledgeable about Deaf etiquette had made no difference to the woman, but Sara had felt that her criticism had been somewhat justified. The two of them could have done some research before going to see Dr. Gilbert.

 _Of course, the interpreter could have clued us in too,_ Sara thought dryly. And then there was the whole puzzle of Grissom knowing sign language--one that Sara now realized had been at least partially solved for her. Sara herself, curious and unwilling to let possibly useful knowledge pass by, had signed up for an introductory signing course last year, but its schedule had been changed before she had had a chance to learn much, and she hadn't had an opportunity since to find one with better timing. _Sometimes working night shift really sucks._

She found Warrick in the layout room, examining the knife. The towel and blouse lay to one side, along with a spattered pair of jeans. "I'm just about to start printing this," he said as Sara came in. "You mind running those samples to Greg?"

"No problem." Sara picked up the blood samples. "Is Jacqui on tonight?"

Warrick didn't raise his head, but his lips curled in a grin. "Sure is. Don't worry, Sar, we won't screw this up."

She laughed, and went to find the DNA tech.

When she came back, Grissom and Warrick were bent over the blouse, but both men straightened as she entered. "You were right, Sara," Grissom said, his voice carrying both approval and regret. "This definitely looks probative."

"We'll have to wait on the prints," Warrick added. "But we should be able to request a warrant by the end of shift."

Sara grimaced. "Right." She pulled on fresh gloves and unfolded the towel with care. Warrick's beeper went off, and he glanced at it and then excused himself. Sara expected Grissom to leave as well, but he went on examining the blouse, and Sara decided to try to satisfy her curiosity. _He's been nicer than usual ever since we got back, after all._ "So what did Dr. Gilbert want?" she asked casually, clicking on a handlight to get a better look at the towel.

"A favor," Grissom replied absently, peering closely at the fabric. Sara opened her mouth to ask another question, but Grissom surprised her by continuing. "One of her students died under suspicious circumstances. His family's in town for his graduation, and Dr. Gilbert wanted me to take the case along with dayshift."

He didn't have to explain why. "Are you going to?" Sara asked.

He sighed without looking up. "I think I have to. That is, if the director will allow it."

"Like he won't," Sara muttered under her breath. The lab director was as politically oriented as the Sheriff. Having someone who could interact with a minority group over a potentially eye-catching case would be so attractive that Sara wouldn't put it past the man to _order_ Grissom to take it once he found out.

Half an hour later Jacqui beeped Sara to the print lab. "We have a match," she said, handing Sara the printout. Her usual satisfaction was missing; somehow the details of the case had made the rounds of the lab, as they sometimes did, and there was no triumph in solving this one.

Sara took the folder. "It's Madelyn?"

The fingerprint tech nodded soberly. "Prints all over the handle and two on the blade. Did he really..."

"We haven't got the results back from the rape kit yet," Sara answered as Jacqui trailed off. "But that reminds me, I need to go see Greg."

Greg was not in his lab, and when Sara checked the time she realized that he was probably off getting lunch. But a file folder sat on one pristine counter, with her name and Warrick's printed in bold lettering. What was inside told her all she needed to know.

She swallowed against a faint swell of nausea, and called Brass.

* * *

Grissom sighed as he tied his shoes. Normally at this time of day he would be winding down, maybe with a beer and some Leoncavallo, but definitely not in a clean shirt and slacks. Sara's muttered comment about the lab director had been right on the money--the man had all but fallen over himself in his eagerness to have Grissom in charge of this particular case. It would be easy enough for Grissom to switch shifts for a few days, if tiring, but--he admitted silently--he didn't want to leave Sara alone. The case she was working was pushing several of her buttons, and it looked like things were about to get worse. She had done so much for him recently. It behooved him to offer all the support he could.

 _Oh, be honest with yourself, at least. You can't stand to see her hurting._ Grissom wondered if she would even accept comfort from him anymore, not that he'd ever been good at it. He hadn't her open heart.

Grimacing at his train of thought, Grissom picked up his keys and headed out. The young man in question, Tony Phillips, was a partially deaf Californian, according to Dr. Gilbert. It appeared he had died of alcohol poisoning after a wild graduation party at the Deaf college, but there were a few anomalies, and Grissom was going to have to work with the dayshift CSIs assigned to the case to see if he could clear them up.

But first, he was going to meet with Tony's family. Mother, father, and aunt, Dr. Gilbert had told him, all devastated by Tony's death. Her fierce eyes and emphatic signing had urged him to step in, to offer the three Deaf people a communications link into the heart of the investigation. He didn't really want the additional responsibility right now, not when he still felt so drained from his mother's death, but here he was anyway.

And when he walked into Dr. Gilbert's office, and met the eyes of the president and Tony's family, Grissom wished all the more that he'd turned the assignment down. _There are a lot of Phillips in California,_ he mused in irony, even as Dr. Gilbert rose to make the introductions. _Why these?_

Tony's father and mother greeted Grissom sadly, distracted by grief, but Tony's aunt stood and told Dr. Gilbert that no introduction was needed. Grissom recognized her as easily this time as he had just the week before, in the church. Older, more sedate, but still the woman he remembered from twenty years before.

"Irene," he signed politely, and she smiled.


	11. Chapter 11

"I've got bad news," Brass growled, falling into a breakroom chair. "Sara, you're closest. Be a sweetheart and pour me some coffee, would you?"

The words might have been sexist coming from a different man, but there was nothing but affection and desperate weariness in the captain's face, and Sara filled a cup for him without hesitation. "What's up?"

Brass took a healthy gulp and wrinkled his nose, though whether at the heat or the taste, Sara couldn't tell, and looked from her to Warrick and back again. "Madelyn Stevens is missing again."

Warrick raised his brows and whistled, leaning back in his chair. "How'd that happen?"

The older man shrugged tiredly. "Not sure. My guys went to serve the warrant on her, but it looks like she snuck out of the foster house. We've got an APB out on her now."

Sara poured herself a cup, doctored it, and leaned against the table. "You think Jenni Nguyen tipped her off?"

"Maybe." Brass drank again. "Man, this stuff is bad. Anyway, we find her, you'll know as soon as we do."

* * *

Looking for the Coombs family members was just the kind of research Sara excelled at. Hunting through databases for information, tracking elusive, fragile trails through virtual file drawers, pulling together scraps of information that were nothing separately, but that together could form a picture. Todd Coombs...his parents...brothers Roger, Larry, Kevin, Bailey, and Joss; sisters Georgia and Sandra...addresses, places of business, birth dates. Brass and Warrick went to find Larry and Roger and Nick to find Kevin, while she and Detective Vartan sought out Bailey. He was working in a sunlit neighborhood, and went from disinterest to hostility within heartbeats.

"You want a sample of my DNA? What for?" He looked down at the paper he held, only paying them slight attention.

"It's an ongoing investigation, sir," Vartan told him. "A rape. We can't discuss it any further than that."

Sara fished in her vest for a swab, noting absently that while Bailey was handsome in a clean-cut way, he didn't really match the sketch of the suspect. "Does your route include the Southern Highlands?" she asked.

"No, I work this side of the Fifteen, Seven Hills." His annoyance was beginning to show.

"Were you working two nights ago?" Vartan asked neutrally.

"You talked to my supervisor--you know I was. Look, I heard about what happened to that lady, and I know what you guys put Todd and Crystal through. You got something against my family?"

Sara definitely didn't like his attitude. "You got something against cooperating?"

He glared at her, but didn't protest when she swabbed his mouth.

She caught up to Nick in the lab; he looked hot and tired. "Hey. How'd it go with brother number four?"

"Nowhere." He paced her down the corridor. "No Kevin Coombs at the address you gave me, no forwarding address. PD's following up."

Sara shook her head, frustrated.

* * *

It was the next shift and halfway through processing a gang execution scene when Sara's beeper went off. Nick straightened from his collection of shell casings at the sound and watched as Sara shut off the noise and read the display. "Gotta go?" he asked, when her face went still and closed.

The corners of her mouth turned down. "Yeah. They're bringing in my suspect." She looked guiltily around at the scene. "Nick, I'm sorry."

He gave her a smile. "No worries. Me and Greggo there will handle it." He gestured at the DNA tech several yards away, who was taking photographs with the meticulous care of the neophyte. "And you can buy us breakfast later."

Sara pointed her finger at him like a gun. "You're on, Texas."

Brass was waiting for her outside the interrogation room. "My guys found her trying to hitch a ride on the I-15," he said. "Her wallet's full of her stepfather's credit cards." Once again, he held the door open for her, and they took their seats.

This time, Madelyn had a lawyer. She was still sullen, but the fire of her anger seemed to have died down, leaving resignation in its place. This time, Sara took the lead.

"Madelyn, we have forensic evidence proving that you killed your stepfather," Sara began. "Your fingerprints and DNA on the murder weapon, his blood on your blouse, traces of sleep aid on your clothes..." When the teenager failed to respond, Sara went on.

"We also have evidence proving that your stepfather abused you, physically and sexually. That could mitigate the severity of your sentence."

"If you plead guilty," Brass cut in smoothly. The lawyer's gaze flicked between Sara and Brass, and she could practically see the wheels turning in the man's head. Her own gaze went briefly to the mirrored window, where she knew Warrick was watching. The two of them were probably thinking the exact same thing--that the public defender would urge Madelyn to plead insanity. It was a decent defense, and the result would probably be a drawn-out trial--all the more so if the press got hold of it.

"He deserved it," the teenager said without emotion, tracing one finger over the surface of the table and ignoring the abortive movement of her lawyer. "I'd do it again if I had the chance." She raised her eyes to Brass, and then looked at Sara. "I'd do it a lot sooner, too."

* * *

Kevin Coombs, when finally tracked down, apparently lived in a junkyard, Sara thought, as she and Vartan picked their way through heaps of metal and scrapped cars. "Checked with County Records," she said, looking around. "The crime scene's on a 20-acre plot...guess who owns the property."

"One of the Coombs brothers," the detective ventured.

"The Coombs Brothers company," Sara corrected, and Vartan made an impatient sound. Sara took off her sunglasses for a better look at some of the stuff they were passing. It was a little too structured to be simply tossed. "Guy's an artist," she commented dryly.

"You call that art?" Vartan retorted.

Sara slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head as they neared a battered trailer. Beyond it--

"Black SUV," she noted to Vartan.

The trailer door slammed open, and a scruffy man with wild eyes and a shotgun jumped down out of it. "You're on my property!" he yelled, racking the gun.

Vartan was quicker on the draw than Sara; adrenaline hindered her grab for her gun, but she got it out of the holster and aimed at the man, heart beating wildly.

"Put the weapon down," Vartan said firmly. Sara narrowed her eyes, holding her aim, trying not to remember the last time she'd had to pull a weapon on a suspect.

"You're on my property!" the man insisted more loudly, looking from one to the other as though his outrage would make them vanish.

"Las Vegas Police. Drop it or we shoot," Vartan countered, sounding more annoyed than angry, but his aim was sure.

The man's eyes, not quite sane, flicked back and forth, and then he dropped the gun. "Turn around," Vartan ordered, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and pressing him up against the trailer to cuff him. Sara kept her gun on the suspect, unable to lower it, unable to stop her reaction, the fear flooding through her.

Vartan took the scowling man's collar and arm and turned him. "Are you Kevin Coombs?" Sara demanded, her voice harsh with tension.

"I can see the family resemblance," Vartan said, that dry cop toughness coming out. "C'mon," he added to Kevin, dragging him off ungently.

That broke the spell. Sara lowered her gun, blinking, finally letting out a hard breath as she mastered her body. But her hands shook as she went back to her SUV for the camera and a cap to keep her hair out of her eyes.

Vartan saw Kevin Coombs off as Sara explored the junkyard. He wandered back as she snapped a few photos. "Whaddya got?"

Sara lowered the camera, thoughtful. "Maybe a missing Pontiac Tempest." She stepped forward for a closer look at the badly rusted car, bending over to peer inside before taking another photo. Her hands had steadied, but as she drove away from the scene, they began trembling again. She tightened her grip on the wheel, the turmoil she thought long buried resurfacing.

* * *

Sara slipped into the morgue. She'd had to wait until David left, but her vigilance had paid off, and there was no one to see her pull open the heavy door and slide out the tray. Linley Parker's battered face, still with the absence of soul, held no look of accusation; her eyes were shut. But Sara couldn't help feeling as though this death, too, was being laid at her doorstep.

 _Maybe if I hadn't backed off from this one...if I'd been more involved...maybe we would have caught him sooner._ It was an irrational thought, she knew that. Todd Coombs' extraordinary genetics had protected him for a long time, and any other investigator than Grissom might not have seen the lines on Todd's back at all, let alone followed up on the oddity. But she couldn't help it. She'd held back, too tired of hurting to go through it again, and their victim had become a victim twice.

"I'm sorry, Linley," Sara murmured to the empty body. Pushing the tray back in, she shut the door. It was far too late.

* * *

Grissom was going on about the peculiarities of chimeras, but for once Sara wasn't really paying attention. Her mind kept playing over the events of the past few days, Madelyn's angry face giving way to Linley's beaten one and back again. The purpose of the crime lab was ostensibly justice--but justice was hollow for both women.

"Sara!"

Both Sara and Grissom swung around at Brass' call. The captain caught up to them quickly. "Is your pager working? Headquarters has been trying to reach you all night."

Sara pulled the little unit from her waistband and swore. "I just replaced the batteries last week! It must be broken."

"What is it?" Grissom asked, curious.

Brass blew out a breath. "Madelyn Stevens has been asking for, I quote, 'the skinny chick who took the photos'. You seem to have impressed her."

Sara glanced at Grissom, who surprised her by putting one hand on her shoulder. "You've spent enough time here tonight. Go."

She blinked at him; she'd expected a lecture on getting too close again. "You sure?"

"She might have something important to say about the case." The gleam in Grissom's eyes made her suspect that he was half-teasing her. "Go already."

Brass took her arm and began hauling. "I have to go back--I'll drive you."

"Thanks!" Sara tossed back over her shoulder, and Grissom smiled at the pair of them as they disappeared around the corner.

County Lockup was usually a busy place, but tonight it seemed understaffed. "Where is everybody?" Sara asked as they walked through the lobby.

Brass shrugged. "Major convention in Chicago this week. Lots of nonessential personnel took their vacation all at once." Sara raised a brow at him, and he elaborated. "I went last year."

The first four cells were occupied with the usual array of drunk and disorderlies, some somnolent, some noisy; Sara and Brass ignored them with the ease of long practice. Madelyn Stevens was in the last cell, alone, for her own protection as a minor. "How long has she been trying to reach me?" Sara asked as they passed a couple of empty cells.

"Since she got here, I think," Brass said, fishing for keys. They dropped from his hand when he looked up and into the cell, and after an instant of shock he sucked in a breath and began bellowing for help.

Sara crouched, snared the keys in one swift motion, and straightened, jamming the correct one into the lock and throwing open the barred door. One stride, and she was kneeling beside the small limp figure leaning against the bars, scarcely hearing Brass barking orders into his cellphone. Her fingers worked frantically at the slender leather loop embedded so deeply in Madelyn's throat; the other end was tied to one of the cell bars. But the girl's skin was icy cold, and even as the noose loosened, years of experience told Sara that they were far too late. Petechial hemorrhaging, cyanosis, the distinctive odor of a voided body; Madelyn Stevens had taken herself beyond all earthly help.

* * *

Grissom had had a dream, once--a nightmare that had forced him out of sleep sweating and on the edge of panic, and even after its imagery faded in the focus of his waking mind, he'd been uneasy until the next shift had started and he'd seen Sara whole and healthy, bantering with Nick in the breakroom. Some things are too deeply rooted for logic to hold sway. Long before Dr. Lurie had created a technicolor distortion of that old nightmare, Grissom had envisioned it, and thought he'd pushed the fear and horror away.

To the dispassionate eye, the scenes of his dream would not have been that bad; it was the emotions accompanying them that made them so agonizing. But he'd never seen it in real life, not even in Debbie Marlin's empty form--that perfect pure whiteness of Sara's face, the stark emptiness. Until now.

All the scene lacked was the delicate lids closed, long lashes quilled against the pale skin. But here and now, Sara wasn't dead. The chaos in her eyes testified to that. Huge and staring, they were fixed on nothing, and she didn't even seem to notice the fuss swirling past the battered bench in the Headquarters hallway where she sat.

He'd gotten one terse call from Brass-- _"Stevens is dead. Sara found her. Get over here--"_ and now his stomach lurched at the sight of her. He'd seen her suffer for victims before, seen her angry and grieving and frustrated, but he'd never seen her like this. Catching sight of Brass hurrying past with two other officers, he reached out and snagged the shorter man's elbow. "Explain, Jim," he ordered tersely.

Brass waved the uniforms on and unclipped his tie, his movements short and jerky with disgust. "Somebody slipped up. That's all I know so far." He stuffed the tie in his jacket pocket, pulling open the top button of his shirt. "Heads will roll, though, I promise you that."

"It won't bring Madelyn back," Sara said, her voice quiet but surprisingly steady, and both men turned to look at her. She was still staring into the distance.

"No," the captain agreed in a hard voice. "But somebody has to answer for it." He let out a long breath, calming himself. "And, unfortunately, somebody has to process it."

"Catherine," Grissom said instantly. Warrick was on another assignment, and there was absolutely no way he was going to let Sara process. She stirred, but he did not look to see if she was protesting. "Call her, Jim."

Brass agreed and turned away, and Grissom spared him a moment's sympathy for the task that lay ahead of him--finding out who had missed the belt Madelyn had used to kill herself, and why no one had found her in time. But a moment was all he could spare. "Sara?"

She put out a hand, a vague gesture, and her eyes didn't really focus. "I'm okay, Grissom."

"No, you're not." He took her arm and pulled her gently to her feet. "Come on."

It was a measure of her shock, he thought, that she didn't fight him as he guided her out of the building. She did mutter something about a report, and he pointed out that she could do it later.

It was a quick drive back to the lab, and an all but silent one. Grissom wanted to comfort Sara, but he knew very well that there was nothing he could say or do to change anything. He offered to drive her straight home, but she refused in a flat tone that warned him against pushing any further, and he bit his lip in the darkness and wished he hadn't let her get so far away.

* * *

Grissom dropped her off at her car. "Go home," he told her quietly. "Rest if you can."

But rest was out of the question. Sara drove home, and showered as though the hot water could wash her failures from her skin. When Nick called to ask her if she wanted to get a drink with he and Warrick, she accepted, and dressed carefully, putting on her long coat and winding a scarf around her throat. A few beers might just take the edge off the horror, and company would help.

They spent an easy couple of hours, talking about nothing important, and Sara's anguish--already hidden--vanished beneath the soothing glow of beer and friendship. Eventually, though, it was time to go home.

"What a night," Warrick said, sauntering along the sidewalk. "You guys hungry? Want to get something to eat?"

Sara rubbed her hands together, still pleasantly buzzed. "No, I think I'm going to call it a night."

"Yeah, me too," Nick chimed in.

Warrick nodded. "I feel ya." He put a hand on Sara's back, and she returned a pat on his shoulder; he nodded to Nick. "Get some rest," he instructed, and veered away.

"All right, I'll see you," Nick called after him.

Sara looped her arm through his as they continued walking. "Hey, hey, Nick, congratulations on your almost-promotion." Nick gave her a look. "Seriously, you deserve it."

He held the stare, a smile gradually creeping over his face. "Wow, that's really hard for you, isn't it?"

She couldn't help returning the smile, amusement overtaking anger, though she did shove him a little. "Yeah. It is."

The smile persisted as she walked away. She knew it was the alcohol, but it was such a relief to stop caring for a little while.

* * *

Grissom hadn't thought he'd be repeating the drive to the station again that night, though dawn was beginning to lighten the sky as he reached his car. He could scarcely credit what he'd been told, and as he drove images of Sara kept appearing in his mind's eye, ranging from her brilliant smile when she first arrived in Vegas to the long, guilt-edged look he'd taken in Marina del Rey, pushing open her door one night just to look at her curled up asleep. And the same thought kept running beneath them-- _How did things get this bad?_

He saw her before she knew he was there, and his throat closed up at the sight--the last time he'd seen her look so defeated was the death of the Kirkwood girl. She sat hunched over, elbows on her knees, and he wanted so much to simply mend it all for her, to erase the pain that showed in the stiff lines of her body. Grissom knew that he should be angry with her, first for endangering herself and others by drinking and driving, and second for endangering her career. But he couldn't manage it. He understood too well.

She wouldn't look at him when he sat down next to her, but he'd expected that. It didn't matter. Right now he wasn't her supervisor, despite the phone call. Right now, he was her friend. And when he took her hand, she didn't pull away.


	12. Chapter 12

Grissom closed her apartment door behind him; Sara wondered bleakly why she'd let him follow her in, and braced herself for a scolding. But he only turned concerned eyes to her. "Are you all right?"

She laughed, a bitter sound, and pulled off her scarf. "I got pulled over on a DUI. Does that sound all right to you?" Dumping the scarf on the breakfast bar, she followed it with her coat and opened the fridge for water. "Want one?" she asked, waving the bottle at Grissom.

He shook his head. "Sara, what you did was stupid, yes, but it's understandable."

She twisted the cap off and took a few swallows to get rid of the lump in her throat, but it came back the moment she lowered the bottle. The distance the alcohol had provided was gone, and the fact of Madelyn Stevens' suicide was ricocheting through her again, cutting deep with the knowledge that there was no helping her now, that the hopeless, angry girl had rejected her own life and the system that had failed her. "Oh. So getting drunk 'cause I'm feeling guilty is okay?" She capped the bottle and smacked it onto the counter.

"It's not your fault," Grissom said firmly. "Sara, you had nothing to do with what happened to her."

Her anger was disappearing into despair. "If I'd gotten there sooner--" she tried. "If my pager was working--I should have checked it--"

 _"Sara."_ Grissom's voice was authoritative. "This was _not your fault._ You know as well as I do that someone who is determined to kill themselves will usually find a way."

She couldn't find the words to explain it to him, that she had promised Madelyn her help, and then had appeared to break that promise. For all Madelyn knew, Sara was just like the others who didn't listen, who didn't care. _He might be right. But it doesn't change the fact that she's dead._

Instead, she just bent her head, unable to force her voice to work. She'd run out of energy, out of resilience, out of everything, it seemed. Grissom let out a sigh. "Sara. Please let me help you."

She was so tired. And she knew she would regret this. It was just another taste of what she wanted but couldn't have, that inevitable attraction ruining what could have been--what once was--a wonderful friendship.

But his hand on her shoulder was warm, and he was watching her with eyes that seemed to be asking for more than permission to offer her a little strength and comfort.

She shook her head, but it wasn't a refusal--it was a giving in. Grissom turned her gently towards him, and she found herself surrounded by warmth and living solidity. She was _so_ tired. Sara leaned gradually against him, her arms folded against herself but her head finding its way into the space between his jaw and his shoulder, a space that seemed to fit perfectly.

He didn't say anything. He just held her. His breath was soft across her neck and his heartbeat was strong in her ear, and for once she let someone else worry about keeping balance. There was no awkwardness, no tension. There was just the two of them in a bubble of peace, he offering, she accepting. When his hand crept up and slid slowly over her hair, she only sighed and let one palm rest on his chest. It felt so good--his breath stirring the air she breathed, the touch of his hand, the still quiet strength of him, offered for once without stint or limit.

"Why are you doing this?" she muttered eventually.

She felt his head shift a little, as though he were looking down at her. "Do I need a reason?"

She stiffened, and his embrace tightened fractionally, as though to keep her there. "Sara--" His sigh made her skin tingle. "You gave me comfort when I needed it. Don't deny me the gift of returning it."

She blinked. "I...didn't think you remembered that."

The faint sound under her ear held a hint of amusement. "I almost thought it was a dream, except when I woke up I could smell your scent on me."

"Oh." She really didn't know what to say to that.

"...Thank you," he added awkwardly.

 _You're welcome_ seemed a bit formal under the circumstances. After a moment, she just nodded.

They stood there a long time. Sara knew it had to end, though, and at last she drew in a sad breath and straightened out of Grissom's embrace. He let her go, and the empty anguish that his touch had lessened grew again. To her surprise, he reached out and cupped her face in his hands, turning it up so he could look at her clinically. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked with a touch of authority.

She shrugged and stepped back, unwilling to hurt him but not quite able to deal with so personal a touch. "Eventually, I suppose." Fatigue was washing over her again, and all of a sudden she scarcely had the energy to stand.

Grissom let his arms drop back to his sides. "All right. For now." He gave her a sharp look. "But we're going to have to deal with this later, Sara."

"Whatever," she sighed, too tired to argue.

He made that half-amused noise again, and took her arm. "Come on. Bedtime."

She didn't have enough strength to argue when he guided her to her bed and made her sit. He slipped her shoes from her feet and pushed her gently down, tucking in the covers around her like she was three years old. He didn't turn out the light, as though understanding that the nightmares were lessened by its glow, and sleep drowned her quickly.

At one point she half-woke, opening her eyes to the sight of Grissom sitting nearby, paging through a journal, glasses sliding down his nose. It was absurdly comforting, and she went back to sleep.

* * *

The late afternoon sunlight roused her again. The apartment was empty, she found when she got out of bed, but Grissom had left her two fresh muffins from the bakery down the street, and a note.

_Sara,_

_I suppose there's no point in telling you not to come in, and you have a report to make anyway, but we are going to discuss vacation time again._

_That said, please consider calling me when you wake up, to assuage my paranoia._

Sara recognized the symbol below as a much looser version of the initial "G" he used on paperwork, a version she hadn't actually seen in years, not since his last letter to her in San Francisco. The smile that made it to her face was definitely bittersweet.

"Yeah? What am I supposed to say?" she asked the paper softly. It didn't escape her that the two sentences clearly separated into work and not-work, or that his request was just that--a request. The humor in the phrasing didn't disguise the message of concern, and Sara wondered how a man so often evasive about personal matters could be so clear on paper.

She was torn between the desire to talk to him and the dread of making herself vulnerable yet again. Last night Grissom had become the friend he'd once been, as though all their intervening strain and complications had never happened. She wanted it to last so badly, and at the same time she felt as she had in the movie theater, that it only made the longing worse. When she realized that she had been staring at the note for several minutes, she growled at herself and picked up the phone.

It was tremendously anticlimactic to get his answering machine. A second or so passed before Sara could reorganize her thoughts. "Uh, Grissom, hi. I'm fine. Um...thanks for the muffins, I'll see you tonight."

When she hung up it was laugh at herself or cry, so she laughed.

* * *

Rumor, it seemed, had advanced only so far. When Sara walked into the breakroom, Nick stood up and enveloped her in a hug, and for a moment she clung to him, as relieved by the healing of their friendship as she was comforted by his touch. "How you doin', sweetheart?" he asked softly.

"I'm okay," she said, pulling back enough to smile at him, and if the smile was shaky he didn't point it out.

"You sure?"

"Hey--" Warrick spoke from the doorway. "If you're passing out free hugs, Sara, I'll take one."

They all chuckled at that, and Sara traded Nick's arms for Warrick's gentle squeeze. "We heard about Madelyn," he murmured into her hair. "It's a shame."

She let out an unhappy breath and let him go. "Yeah. Well--" She shrugged. Their eyes held only concern, no anger, and she knew that her run-in with Las Vegas' finest had not reached their ears.

Nick opened his mouth, but before he could speak Grissom breezed in. "Good evening, people," he said easily. "I have a meeting with the director in a few minutes, so I'll pass out assignments now." He handed a slip of paper to Nick. "You get a body in a restaurant. Suspicious circs. Warrick--" He turned to the taller man. "Assault at the Lucky Strike. Have fun." He raised a brow at Warrick's sigh and turned back to Nick. "Take Catherine along if she gets here before you leave, or Greg if she doesn't, but either way you're primary on this one. Sara--" and his glance was perfectly casual-- "you have a report to make; when you're done, come find me." With that, he vanished as quickly as he'd come.

"Well now." Nick studied his assignment with pleasure. "The question is, do I wait for Cath or hightail it out of here?"

Warrick snorted. "If you know what's good for you--you'll wait." He threw the other two CSIs a casual salute and turned towards the door. "See you guys later."

Nick stuffed the paper in his pocket and went to refill his coffee mug. "This pot's almost decent, if you want some better get it now."

"Right behind you." Sara found herself a cup and took the pot as he handed it to her.

"I'm going to grab my gear," he said, dumping sugar in his coffee. "If the esteemed Ms. Willows doesn't show up before I'm ready to leave, Greggo gets it." He winked and strode out, and Sara snickered into her cup.

She was just leaving the room when Catherine hurried up. "Geez! Where is everybody? I'm only two minutes late."

Sara shrugged. "Grissom was running early, so everybody else was too."

Catherine put a hand on Sara's arm, her expression gentling. "I'm sorry about Madelyn," she said softly.

Sara gave her a lopsided smile. "Thanks." A swallow of coffee helped chase away the lump. "Oh--if you can catch Nick before he leaves, you get to go with him. Body in a restaurant."

"Which way did he go?" Catherine asked, grinning.

The report wasn't easy to write. There were many details about the night before that Sara would much rather forget, as soon as possible. But she filled it out with precise anger, knowing that it could be used to help punish whoever had left an unstable teenager unsupervised long enough for her to take her own life. By the time she was done, her stomach was churning, but her eyes were dry. Sara pulled the papers neatly together and went to turn them in. That done, she headed for Grissom's office.

He glanced up as she appeared in the doorway. "Close the door and have a seat," he said calmly, and she obeyed, settling uneasily into the chair facing his desk.

"Thanks for the call this afternoon," he added, before Sara could decide what to say. "Sorry I didn't pick up; I was in the shower."

She squashed the brief, totally unbidden image of Grissom with suds in his hair. "Did I say thank you for last night?"

"I think so." Grissom shut the file he was holding and tossed it on the desk. "I take it you turned in your report?"

"Yeah." She folded her hands, tense. "Am I going to have to see the director?"

Grissom shook his head. "I already talked to him."

"Oh." She shifted in the chair. "...What did you say?"

His glance over his glasses was kind and professorial. "I explained that you had just come off several double shifts and a traumatic event, and that your reaction was entirely outside of the lab's concerns aside from the law enforcement element. He asked me what action I would be taking, and I told him that you would be taking a week of vacation time as soon as you made your report, and then would spend a week in the lab only, to make sure you were rested. He seemed satisfied with that."

Her mouth had dropped open a little during Grissom's recitation, and she closed it again. "Grissom--you don't have to--"

His gaze became sterner. "Don't argue, Sara."

She shook her head. "No--I mean--why are you covering for me?"

"Oh." The corner of his mouth curled up. "It's my job, covering my peoples' asses. I've done it for Warrick and Catherine. You just haven't needed it until now." She bit her lip, and he sobered. "Everybody makes mistakes, Sara, including me." He sighed and pulled off his glasses to rub his face. "Especially me. I owed you the coverage."

He put his glasses back on, and went stern again. "But this had better not happen again."

Her insides were a jumble of relief and confusion and an odd lightness of heart. She held up both hands in innocence. "It won't. I promise."

"Good." Grissom blew out his breath, and Sara only then realized how tense he had been. "You know you can talk to me if you need to, Sara, right? Any time."

His eyes were worried, and she could hear the sincerity in his voice, and she wanted to ask him if that meant she could talk to him about any _thing_. But that would have been cruel, and he had just gone out on a professional limb for her when by all rights he should have left her to twist in the wind. So she stuffed the nasty impulse back down.

"I'll keep it in mind," she answered--not quite able to keep all the flippancy out of her voice, judging from the brief flash of hurt that he blinked away the next instant. "Grissom--thanks." And that she meant sincerely.

"You're welcome, Sara," he said gravely. "Now go home. You have a week of vacation. Go visit your parents, or go camping, or do nothing at all, but I don't want to see you here until next week."

"Okay," she said meekly. The idea of a week without work was appalling, but Grissom had got her off very lightly, and she wasn't about to waste that gift. "I need to clean my apartment anyway."

His grin crinkled his eyes. "Going to organize your sock drawer?"

Her laugh surprised her. "Something like that." She stood, then gestured hesitantly at her pager and gun. "Should I..."

Grissom shook his head. "You're only on vacation. Keep them."

And somehow that let her escape.

* * *

It was the interrogation room, and yet not; for instance, there was an ordinary, smaller window right next to the mirrored one. But it wasn't important. Sara sat next to Brass, who for some inexplicable reason was wearing a fedora, and across the table was Madelyn, who sat with her arms folded and a stubborn look on her face. Sara realized that Brass was trying to convince Madelyn that she would be charged with a felony, but she kept insisting it should only be a misdemeanor. Then Brass was gone, it was just the two of them, and Madelyn made the table disappear with a shove of her hands; the leather strap was pinching her neck impossibly thin, and she opened her mouth and screamed and screamed...

Sara managed to open her eyes, and the screaming stopped, sinking back down into the underside of her mind. She stared wide-eyed into the dimness, afraid even to blink, her body a tense knot of muscle and bone. It took a long time for her heart to slow, and a longer time before she could convince herself to move. _Well. Now I know._ Each ghost who haunted Sara had her own scenario; the details varied, but the pattern was the same. Madelyn Stevens would show up again, her throat constricted into an unnatural horror, but it would not impede her voice.

Finally Sara unkinked herself, rising stiffly to make her way to the bathroom. Only a hot shower would relax her enough to even hope of getting back to sleep, though the odds weren't good.

 _I wonder why I'm bothering,_ she thought, standing under the pounding spray with her eyes closed. _It's not like I have to get up for work._ But she didn't want to screw up her schedule too much; she would be back to work in a week. There was no justice for Madelyn, but there were others she could help.

Sara didn't bother drying her hair when she got out; she just toweled off and crawled back into bed, turning to stare at the ceiling and feel her pillow getting damp as it absorbed the water. And to realize, for the millionth time, that she was lonely.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to all of you who wrote me wonderful notes of enthusiasm and encouragement and suggestion.   
>  Once again, this wouldn't have been half the story it is without Psyched's invaluable assistance. Thank you!

_I'm going to go crazy,_ Sara thought darkly, looking around her apartment. Three days of enforced vacation had given her opportunity, and boredom had given her motive, and not only had she cleaned and organized her apartment, she was seriously considering repainting the whole thing just for something to do.

Without a work schedule, she'd let her afternoon runs stretch out longer, but it only took the edge off her rebounding energy. Nightmares broke her sleep each day, but since she didn't have to get up to go to work, she was getting more sleep than usual. And activity kept her from thinking too much--about Madelyn, or Linley, or Grissom. Or herself.

The quiet time in the station had given her plenty of opportunity to castigate herself for being so stupid as to drink and drive. Sara had spent the next two nights trying to reconcile herself to her own innocence in the Stevens case, but Madelyn still haunted her, and would indefinitely.

The phone rang, and she started, but the number on the caller ID made her grin. She scooped up the receiver. "Nick! What's up?"

"Heyyyy," came Nick's pleased voice. "Greg owes me ten bucks!"

That made her laugh. "And you called just to tell me that?"

"No, he was sure you blew this town on your vacation. I knew you'd stay." He chuckled. "I love an easy bet."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Glad to be of service," she chirped. "Anything else I can do for you, or are you just going to stalk me?"

A brief confusion of noise and voices resulted in Warrick's voice. "What he's taking his own sweet time about saying is," and she heard Nick grumbling in the background, "we're going out for breakfast, you want to come along?"

Another jumble of sound came as the two men wrestled for the phone. "Who's 'we'?" Sara asked, not sure if anyone was listening.

"Warrick, me, Catherine, Lindsey, and Bobby," Nick's voice replied, sounding a little breathless. "Is Brass coming?" His voice was more distant, as though he were talking to someone else, and then it got louder again. "No, no Brass today."

 _Brass tomorrow,_ the back of Sara's mind supplied with ridiculous timing. _There's always a Brass--_ She cut off the thought. _No B5 flashbacks._ "I'll meet you," she said, immensely comforted that they had remembered her. "Where?"

* * *

Sara was prepared for Grissom's stern look the next evening when he found her in the lab's corridor, and again she raised her hands to signal innocence. "Hey. I'm just taxi service today." She jerked a thumb at the breakroom, and Grissom's expression softened at the sight of Lindsey sitting at the table with a book.

"How'd you get talked into that?" he asked with amusement, and she shook her head.

"I'm not really sure." Kids weren't her thing, but she'd seen the strain around Catherine's eyes that morning at breakfast, and on impulse she'd offered to look after Lindsey for the day, since there was no school. The next several hours had been very educational for Sara, confirming her conviction that while children could be charming, she had no desire for one of her own any time soon, and quite possibly never.

"How are you doing?" came the soft query, and she looked back to find Grissom's gaze on her.

"Fine," she said quickly, not willing to discuss it at the moment, and certainly not in the lab hallway.

"Sara--" Grissom cut off his sentence, and then started again. "Are you free for breakfast?" At her startled look, he shrugged. "Now's not the time, but I do want to know how you are."

She hesitated, torn; the irony of his offer didn't escape her. _I owe him,_ came the thought. "All right. Call me when you leave work."

Sara took a nap when she got home; she'd been holding to the night-shift schedule for the most part, but then had spent that day awake with Lindsey. When she woke, she cast about desperately for _something_ to do. When Grissom called, she was in the midst of ironing everything that could be ironed, and was about ready to pitch the iron through the nearest window. It astonished her when he asked her if eating at his place would be all right.

"Sure," she managed, cradling the phone on one shoulder and shutting off the appliance. "Can I bring anything?"

"Just yourself," Grissom said cheerfully.

* * *

Grissom watched out of the corner of his eye as Sara hesitantly explored his living room, wondering a bit at the fact that he was pleased to have her in his space instead of uncomfortable. It usually took him some minutes to be at ease even when Catherine dropped by. He poured more pancake batter onto the griddle and observed Sara drifting from butterfly case to bookshelf and finally to the wrought-iron sculpture that occupied one corner.

"I got that from Mom," he explained casually, realizing as the words left his mouth that he never would have said them if their trip to Marina del Rey hadn't taken place. The pulse of loss was still a deep ache, but time was blunting it a little. "It was a gift from one of her artists, but she didn't really have space for it, and I like it."

Sara nodded, absorbing the information the way she did whenever she was learning something new. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked finally. "Set the table maybe?"

"If you want," Grissom replied. "I suppose it's too much to expect of you to just sit and relax."

She rolled her eyes at his gentle tease. "I've been relaxing all week," she pointed out dryly. "If I get much more of it, I'll combust or something."

He laughed, and flipped the pancakes expertly. "Plates in that cabinet," he pointed with the spatula, "silverware in the drawer nearest you."

He watched her set the table, one place on either side, and couldn't help comparing this morning with his occasional breakfasts with Catherine. With the older woman, they ate at the breakfast bar, shoving papers aside, and she drank vodka and orange juice and tried, sometimes, to draw him out. With Sara, it was the opposite--he was the one who was going to have to ask questions. And the alcohol stayed in its cabinet.

He shuddered a little, remembering the phone call. The mere idea that she could have killed herself crashing her car was nearly unbearable. The knowledge that she was so stressed that her judgment was off was almost as bad. She had been such a good friend to him in California, far better than he expected, and while he'd tried to do the same for her on returning, it hadn't been easy. She was wary of him now--still--and he was afraid he knew why.

 _Would she even have agreed to this if I weren't her supervisor?_ He'd meant to call her that past evening anyway, figuring that a couple of days' space would be enough, but she'd appeared at the lab and he'd asked her in person. It was too easy to make evasions over the phone, and one way or another, he was going to do his best to make sure that she didn't fall so far again.

Coffee and juice; pancakes and melon and slices of cheddar. They sat at the table in a flood of morning sunlight and a slightly uncomfortable silence, but after a moment Sara asked him how work was going, and they eased into the casual, easy conversation that had once been common. Grissom told her about Greg's latest hairstyle--apparently he was compensating for his more conservative attire--and filled her in on their current cases.

"I have to go to court next Tuesday," she informed him, waving her fork for emphasis. "Which kind of breaks my promise to stay in the lab all week."

Grissom shrugged. "The demands of Justice supercede even my powers," he said drolly, delighted to see her smirk at that. "Just stay out of the field and we'll be okay."

Sara rolled her eyes again, sighing dramatically. "Got it." She took another bite of her third pancake, and swallowed. "You know, Griss, these are really good."

"Thank you," he replied, pleased. "Secret family recipe."

She grew pensive again as they cleared the table. As he refilled their cups, she folded her arms and leaned against the breakfast bar. "Okay. Why am I here?"

Grissom handed her back her mug. "Because I need to know how you're doing," he replied patiently, choosing to speak at least part of the truth rather than evading the blunt question.

"Ever the supervisor. You could have just called me, you know."

He shook his head. "Not as your supervisor. As a friend." As her surprised look melted into skepticism, he hid his wince. "Let's go sit down," he said, nodding towards the living area.

She sat on the couch that had replaced his old loveseat; he took a chair to one side, and put his mug on the low table. "You're right," he said, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands. "I could have just called. But I wanted to see for myself."

Sara raised her brows. "'Paranoia'?" she quoted at him with a hint of humor, and he smiled.

"Something like that. Sara--I do need to know how you are, but I realize that outside of work I have no real right to ask." She blinked, looking taken aback. "I'd like to earn the right again, if I can. But first--" His smile went lopsided. "Will you extend me a little credit and trust me with the truth?"

* * *

Sara just didn't know what to make of Grissom. She had more than half-expected him to withdraw into his old self when they had returned to Vegas, and while he hadn't seemed to, she had been too wrapped up in the Parker and Stevens cases to think much about it. Now...now it was though her mistake, her vulnerability, had spurred some change in him. He didn't press for an answer just yet, instead just watching her. She took a gulp of coffee to buy time, her mind spinning.

Her caution was warning her not to open up to him again. She'd heard him admit that he wasn't capable of a relationship with her, and she knew that no matter what, that attraction would not leave her as long as she was around him. But she was so tired of hurting, and of trying to carry on alone, and his friendship had been one of the best things in her life before they'd moved apart.

 _Oh, who am I kidding? If he's going to be nice, I don't stand a chance._ "I..." she began, trailing off in doubt, then seizing the most important question. "Grissom, I have to know this. Are you going to back away again? I can't--I can't trust you if this is only temporary."

His eyes darkened, and she knew her words had hurt him, but she didn't take them back. His hands tightened on one another, and then he pulled them apart and sat back a little, rubbing them on his pants. "I won't, Sara. I've learned my lesson. I want to be friends again, if we can."

She set her cup down with more precision than necessary, glad of the excuse not to look at him. "Then...what do you want to know?"

Her lowered eyes saw his hands flex, as though he wanted to do something with them but was not allowing himself. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I guess I want to know if you're really okay or just pretending...and if there's anything at all that I can do to help."

His words made her glance up, but now he was looking down. "I'm...on the way to being okay," Sara admitted; it was hard to get the words out. "It's hard to sleep sometimes, but you were right about the vacation. I mean," and she had to smile sheepishly as his head came up with a little grin, "I guess I was worn out." She looked back down at her own hands. "Even if I am going crazy with nothing to do."

"Just think of all the paperwork you're missing," he teased, and her smile widened, then faltered at his next words. "Have you thought about seeing a counselor?"

She was silent for a long moment, and again, he didn't push her. "It's crossed my mind," she admitted. "I'm kinda surprised you didn't make me."

"If I thought it would help, I might have," he said with a hint of steel. "But in this case it's a choice you have to make for yourself."

Sara pulled her gaze up to his face, slowly, but instead of the disapproval she expected, there was only worry. She sighed. "There's been a couple of times in my life when I needed a shrink," she said quietly. "But I don't think this is one of them."

He nodded slowly. "Fair enough. But remember, you can always change your mind."

She snorted. "Yeah."

A little silence fell. Sara was afraid Grissom would remind her of the other half of his question; she honestly didn't know whether her answer would be "You can leave me alone" or "Give me another hug", and neither one was really appropriate at the moment. Even if a large part of her wanted him to come sit next to her so she could lean against him and forget everything for a while.

"You're already helping, Griss," she said finally. "I mean--coming to get me--and--" She halted, unable to articulate what she was feeling, but his eyes were understanding.

"Thank you for letting me," he said softly.

* * *

When Sara got home, it was midmorning and the sun was fierce. She got out of her car and jogged towards her building, hurrying to get out of the heat, but before she reached it a shout of her name made her swing around. Five spaces down, Brass rose out of his car, jacket and tie missing and sleeves rolled up. "Got a minute?" he asked as he came towards her.

"I'm on leave," she said doubtfully, but he shook his head.

"It's not business." He was already sweating, Sara noticed, and he looked even wearier than he had the last time she'd seen him. She suspected she knew what he wanted to talk about, and she really didn't want to, but she didn't have the heart to make him stand out in the sun either.

"You'd better come inside."

Brass heaved a relieved sigh as they entered her cool apartment. "Man, you'd think I'd be used to the heat by now, but every summer..." He trailed off, looking uncomfortable. Sara waved him to a seat and pulled two bottles of water from her fridge, handing him one without comment and sitting down opposite him. The captain opened the bottle and took a long pull at the liquid.

"So what brings you by?" Sara asked at last, keeping her voice pleasant, but his brows went up.

"Three guesses," he said, his gravelly voice equally light.

"You're not my father, Brass," she pointed out shortly, and he snorted.

"And a good thing for both of us that I'm not." His words were bitter-edged, but he waved them aside. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. Would have done it sooner, but I've been kicking asses over that poor Stevens girl."

Sara sat back with an exaggerated sigh. "You, Grissom...can I expect Catherine on my doorstep next?"

He grinned a little at that, eyes crinkling, and despite her annoyance Sara felt a rush of affection. She had never doubted the older man's sincerity. "Probably, if she knew what happened. But your little...adventure...seems to have stayed within the cop circle."

They both sobered at his words. "I'm not here to scold you," Brass said after a moment. "I figure Grissom did a good job of that anyway. I was just worried."

Sara dropped her eyes, toying with the cap of her bottle. "I screwed up," she admitted. "You were right." Which was more, she realized, than she'd admitted to Grissom.

A hand--short of finger, wide of palm--entered her vision and patted her knee. "I wish I wasn't," Brass said softly. "Sara--you gonna be okay?"

She looked up, and his gaze was as worried as Grissom's, but lacked the terrifying pull. His eyes were just kind, and concerned, and that annoying lump was back in her throat. "Yeah," she said, and swallowed. "Yeah, I am."


	14. Chapter 14

Sara's first nights back at work were a relief, restriction notwithstanding. She'd spent the last two days of her enforced vacation day-hiking around Lake Mead, desperate just to get out of her apartment. Her colleagues smiled to see her--some with an edge of sympathy, but it didn't bother her as much as she expected. No one breathed a word about her DUI, and eventually Sara dared to hope that the news really hadn't made it out of the police network.

By Thursday evening, she was itching to get back into the field, but kept her mouth shut. _It's only two more days._ She finished her latest database search and printed out the information she had collected, and went looking for her supervisor.

Grissom wasn't in his office, or the DNA lab. Nor was he in the conference room, but there were three people sitting there, and she poked her head in the door. "Sorry to bother you," she said politely, "but has Dr. Grissom been by?"

The man and woman sitting close together didn't look up until the woman on the other side of the table did. None of them answered, which puzzled Sara, but a second later she realized that she'd seen the lone woman before. Her eyes widened--it was the woman from the photographs, and from the church. The connections closed in Sara's mind. _She's Deaf--they must be that dead kid's family._ "Sorry," she said, not knowing if any of them could hear at all, wondering if they could lip-read. "I, uh, I'll find him."

The dark-haired woman frowned, and stood up, shoving her chair back. "Where did you get that?" Her voice, like Dr. Gilbert's, was muffled, and the inflections were off, but the words were clear. She stalked up to Sara, throwing her head back to glare up at the taller woman, and pointed at Sara's chest. "Why do you have that?"

Sara looked down, confused, and caught sight of the necklace she'd put on earlier that evening. It was the one Grissom had given her in California, the pearl puzzle on the long chain, and it had apparently slipped from under her lab coat. "I...this?" She picked it up from where it rested in front of her sternum. "Grissom gave it to me, I--"

The woman's face was fierce. "You have no right. It's not yours!" Behind her, the couple were staring at the two women, looking worried. The woman's hand hovered, as though she were thinking of pulling the necklace from Sara's throat, and the CSI took a cautious step backward. "It's not yours."

Sara shook her head. "Look, I'm sorry if I've done something wrong, but it was just--"

"Give it to me!" The older woman took another step forward, forcing Sara out into the corridor. Sara wrapped her fist around the pendant, unsure of what was going on, but knowing that she didn't want to give it up. Grissom had given it to _her. But it might have been a mistake,_ her mind pointed out. _Maybe Mrs. Grissom meant to leave it to her. You don't even know if the will's been read yet._

The woman wasn't giving up. "Give it to me now!"

"Irene!" The name crackled through the air, loud enough to get the attention of both women, and they turned to see Grissom striding down the corridor. He was in full supervisor mode, some part of Sara noticed, putting on the complete authority he so rarely used. "What are you doing?" he asked, speaking and signing at the same time.

He didn't wait for an answer as he reached them, just herding them both back into the conference room and turning to the older woman with a stern face. "What are you talking about?"

Sara's gaze flicked between his moving hands and Irene, trying to take in all that was going on. Fortunately for Sara, Irene spoke as she signed back. "That necklace is mine, Gilbert! You know Robin meant me to have it. _She--_ " and her gesture towards Sara was contemptuous-- "has no right to it."

Grissom's frown deepened, and he glanced at the other couple, who shook their heads at him. "Irene..." His voice was tired, and on impulse Sara ducked out of the necklace.

"Grissom--if it belongs to her--" She held it out to him, but before the older woman could reach for it, Grissom shook his head and folded Sara's hand around the pendant.

"No. It's yours." He turned back to Irene. "If Mom had meant you to have it, she would have given it to you." He rode ruthlessly over her objection. "You gave up all your rights a long time ago."

Grissom turned his back on the woman, ignoring her sputter of fury. "Is that your report?" he asked Sara calmly, holding out his hand for the folder. To the casual eye he was only annoyed, but Sara knew him too well, and she could see the anger and embarrassment in his eyes. She nodded and put it into his grasp, meeting his gaze, trying to let him know that she would keep this secret along with all the others she now held.

A little of the strain eased from his face, and she withdrew, shutting the door behind her.

Sara didn't see Grissom more than in passing for the rest of the shift; things got busy and he left for a scene with Warrick after showing the three civilians out. Sara processed evidence as Nick and Catherine brought it in, preferring scut work to paperwork, and got absorbed; the buzz of her pager near the end of shift made her jump. The display bid her to Grissom's office, and she complied.

He was looking stressed, she noticed as she paused in his doorway. The lines of his face were deeper than usual, and he was squinting at the papers he held, his mouth drawn in a tight line. But when she rapped on the doorframe, he looked up and smiled a little, some of the strain fading. "Come in, Sara."

She took two steps forward and looked inquiring, and he nodded, so she shut the door and sat down.

"How's it going?" Grissom asked, and she pursed her lips.

"Is that a professional question or a personal one?"

He snorted, though she wasn't trying to be funny. "Both, I suppose." He glanced at his watch. "I didn't pull you away from anything important, did I?"

"Nah." She sat back a little. Grissom tossed the papers on his desk, then got up and came around, taking the other chair next to hers.

"I...wanted to explain. About earlier today."

 _Oh._ "Only if you want to tell me."

Grissom's glance was sharp. "I get the feeling that you know a lot of it already," he said dryly, and Sara felt one corner of her mouth twitch up in helpless reaction.

"Well..."

He shook his head. "I should have known better than to leave you alone with that album," he muttered, and rubbed his face tiredly.

"When Irene and I were...together," Grissom began reluctantly, "she and Mom were pretty close. Irene was fascinated by that necklace, and Mom knew it, though I don't think she ever actually promised it to Irene. Afterwards...well, I know Irene kept in touch with her." His mouth was tight. "I really didn't expect to run into Irene again...I mean, I suppose it was inevitable, the Marina del Rey Deaf community's pretty small, but--not like this." He let out a long breath. "I'm really sorry about all that, Sara," he added, surprising her. "Tony's family is very upset by his death, and Irene's always been kind of volatile, but--"

"It's okay, Grissom," Sara interjected. "Really."

"No, it's not," he said, with some asperity. "She has no excuse for her behavior."

Sara couldn't quite make sense of his expression--his face held weariness, and grief, and a touch of anger, but there were other emotions there that she couldn't identify. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Seeing Irene again has dredged up a lot of stuff I thought I'd left behind," he admitted. A chill began to form in Sara's heart.

 _What does that mean? Is he still interested in her? I don't even know why they broke up in the first place._ "You don't have to explain anything to me," she said softly.

Grissom's eyes opened, and he looked at her intently. "No, I don't suppose I do," he agreed, and she felt the cold deepen suddenly.

"I should get going," she said, keeping her voice calm and pushing herself to the edge of the chair. But Grissom leaned over and put his hand on hers, a touch that even now she was not expecting.

"I don't have to, Sara, but I want to," he said. "You've been amazing through all of this, and I know you're curious."

The cold receded a bit, and Sara let herself relax. "Who, me?" she asked, giving him a smile that he returned, letting her go and leaning back in his chair.

"Irene and I were engaged to be married...hmmm...twenty-three years ago. She broke it off." His mouth quirked, old pain. "It hurt a lot at the time, but it also taught me some valuable lessons."

"Like?" Sara asked softly.

"Like, never assume that the other person feels the same way you do." He was looking off into the distance, into the past, and something in her wanted to go find Irene and kick the her ass, even though the young woman who had hurt him so badly was half a lifetime ago. "Or that they'll go on feeling the same way even if they do."

His words weren't directed at her; he wasn't giving her any secret message. In fact, he looked so distracted that Sara guessed that he was probably saying more than he might have if he'd been paying attention. Nonetheless, the words hurt.

"Life's like that," she pointed out gently. "Everybody has to learn that lesson sometime."

Grissom's eyes came back into focus, and his smile was sad. "I suppose."

His phone rang. He grimaced and reached for it. "Grissom...yeah..."

Sara hesitated, not sure if she should wait for him to finish the call, but the conversation went abruptly technical, and she got up and left quietly. She put away the project she'd been working on, and clocked out; driving home, she kept going over Grissom's words.

 _I guess she **was** the person who burned him._ Sara stopped for a red light, beginning to be aware of the sadness pressing on her chest. _Well, it explains a lot._ Like why he couldn't take a risk on Sara herself.

She had to admit that his caution had a basis in logic. People changed; there was no way to guarantee that even the best relationship would last forever. _But I don't think he understands how I feel._ She kept remembering that photograph, a young man with light in his eyes, arms around what he thought was going to be his future. _If it were me...he'd never get rid of me._ A small smile, half-sad, half-iron, crossed her face. _Too bad for both of us that it's not._

* * *

Grissom sat in his office for a long time after shift was over, ostensibly doing his interminable paperwork, but in reality thinking. Sara had slipped away before he could tell her to stay that morning, and in truth his colleague's call had taken some time. Now his thoughts kept shifting between the present and the past, between one woman and the other.

He could still remember, when he tried--and he didn't try often--what it had been like. He'd had his life ahead of him, and a lover who he thought was as devoted to him as he was to her. For a little while, he'd floated on that bliss, adoring the sweet, charming woman who had agreed to marry him. She wasn't as smart as he was--he knew that--but she was by no means stupid, and he already knew that he would find few women willing to accommodate his job and his hobbies, let alone one he could feel for.

Except she hadn't. She'd met him for lunch one afternoon and told him coolly that she wasn't willing to put up with him coming home late most days and smelling of chemicals or worse, that she wanted children but wanted their father to be there for them, that she'd rethought the whole thing and he was out of the question. And she'd put his ring on the table and walked out of his life.

It was the first time as a coroner that he called in sick, and the last. Her abrupt about-face didn't astonish him as much as the casual cruelty of it; Grissom had known Irene was selfish, but it hadn't bothered him, it was just the way she was. But he hadn't known her to be cruel.

From the perspective of nearly a quarter-century more of life, he could look with a certain compassion on his younger self, could now feel relief at having avoided what would probably have been a short and disastrous marriage. But the incident had taught him a lesson he still remembered--that his personality and habits were not things easy to live with. Probably even less so now.

Ironically enough, Grissom remembered, Irene had gotten married a couple of years later, to a Deaf man, a teacher. The marriage had lasted not quite five years.

In his mind's eye he saw Irene again, as she was now, older and a little harder around the edges; Sara towered over her. _Sara--_

He'd been appalled that past evening to see Irene trying to intimidate his CSI into handing over that necklace. What he'd told Sara had been true; what he hadn't mentioned was that after their breakup, his mother had been no more than polite to Irene despite the younger woman's best efforts to keep their friendship. He knew for certain that Robin would never have given Irene anything that had been precious to her. And the necklace had been. He'd bought it for his mother himself, while he was in college. He could still remember the delight on her face when she'd first seen it.

Giving it to Sara had been an impulse, but an appropriate one. Complicated, delicate, beautiful, rewarding--it was so like her in a way. And, deep down, he was warmed by the thought that she now owned something that had been important to him. _And you would have approved, wouldn't you, Mom?_ His mouth quirked at the thought. He'd told Sara the truth, his mother would have liked her. He regretted, now, that he'd never get the chance to introduce the two women. Robin would have loved Sara, her fierceness, her intelligence, her humor...

 _Sara._ She was the antithesis of Irene--driven, generous, straightforward. That was part of his helpless attraction to her, he admitted. Sara had her secrets, but she made no pretense about how she felt. _At least she didn't. Not until I drove her to it._

He exhaled ruefully, rubbing absently at the facial hair that still occasionally felt new. Seeing Irene again had brought up a lot of things, true. It also underscored just how much he wanted Sara. How much he needed her. Her passion for justice, her dry humor, her bottomless compassion, the obsessions that he understood because they were his own. She had changed, but so had he.

And something had shifted, recently. Grissom had never wanted to see her defeated and shamed in the police station waiting room, but finding her there had shown him something important. Until then, he had never really thought of her as anything but magnificently self-sufficient. No matter what happened, she seemed to carry on, and that was one reason why he had shied away from something deeper for so long--he didn't think she needed him, needed anybody.

But the woman who had sat so silently in the darkness needed someone, and while Grissom knew that almost any of her friends would have fit the bill then, it had been him. That vulnerability offered him a hope that he could be what she needed, that a relationship between them would not be one-sided and fleeting. The idea that she might actually need _him_ filled him with a strange urgency, making his own need stronger.

 _If she still wants a relationship._ There was the crux of it. He just didn't know.

He picked up the phone.


	15. Chapter 15

There was nothing particularly eye-catching about the townhouse, but Sara found herself staring at it nonetheless. Her car was uncomfortably warm with the engine off, but she couldn't quite bring herself to move yet. _What am I doing here, exactly?_

She didn't know what to make of Grissom. Still. Again. _Whatever._ She'd spent years waiting vainly for him to do something, anything, more than double entendres, and now he'd issued a second meal invitation--and a large part of her feared that he was only checking up on her, keeping an eye on her after her little incident with the police.

The message left on her machine had given her a space to think about it, to decide whether she was willing to open herself up to Grissom again. It still felt so precarious, this new vulnerability, but Sara had to admit that so far Grissom had been worthy of the trust she'd placed in him once more. He hadn't pushed her away, hadn't so much as hinted. In fact, he'd been more open with her than ever before, barring their time out of time in California.

Sara shifted in her seat, uneasy. The dynamics had changed, and not just with those four days. True, she'd laid herself open to Grissom before, often painfully so, but that was before he had been summoned into her own personal little humiliation. He had been the last person she'd wanted to see that night, the last person she'd wanted to disappoint, but somehow he'd lessened the sting with the clasp of his hand. He hadn't lectured, or condemned, or even said "I told you so"; he'd only taken care of her in a way she hadn't let anyone do in a very long time, and yet desperately wanted.

And now he'd asked her over for dinner, on a Saturday night no less. And in a moment of madness she'd accepted. _And sooner or later you have to get out of the car and go inside._ She could, she supposed, call him on her cellphone and back out, but that seemed cowardly as well as rude.

 _Give me a break._ Sara gave herself a shake and summoned determination. _If he pisses me off I can always leave._

Her knock on his door was answered with a shouted "Come in!" and she obeyed. A wave of savory scent reached her as she stepped inside; the big main room was softer-edged without the sun pouring in, the early evening light muting the colors a bit, but Grissom had the lights on in the kitchen and a towel slung over his shoulder, and the sight of him being domestic made her throat tighten a little. "Hey," she called, shutting the door behind her.

Grissom turned, smiling, and pulled the towel off to dry his hands. "Good evening," he returned, looking completely comfortable in his own space.

Sara held up the bag she was carrying, a little awkward. "Salad," she said unnecessarily. She'd insisted on bringing something this time.

"Just put it on the table," Grissom said, folding the towel and setting it down. "You're right on time, this is just about ready to come out of the oven."

The timer rang as he finished, and Sara took the salad container out of the bag, popping off the lid and putting it on the table, which was already set with two places. Grissom could set an elegant table when he put his mind to it, Sara mused, noting the matching placemats and napkins, the simple china that made her plastic salad bowl look a little déclassé, the long-stemmed wineglasses...

The bag crumpled in her hand. Wineglasses, yes, and an open bottle of red wine. Nothing expensive, just a medium Merlot, but it took her breath away. "Um...I'm going to go wash my hands," she called, praying that her voice would remain steady, and retreated into the bathroom.

Once there, she stared at herself in the mirror, ignoring the subtle aura of Grissom that permeated the small room. _How does he do it?_

The dark eyes staring back at her, a little too wide, had no more answer than _He always does._ Such a small thing, that was at the same time such a deep gesture of trust. Somehow Grissom knew that she hadn't sought alcohol because of an addiction; the innocuous bottle out there on the table was his acknowledgement that she had moved beyond her mistake, that he trusted her. This was the Grissom she'd first known, the man whose mind worked the same way hers did, whose subconscious was so like her own that they could work together for hours without having to exchange one word. That rapport might have gotten lost along the way, and Sara refused to consider at the moment at whose feet most of the blame could be laid, but apparently it was back full-force.

She couldn't decide whether it scared her or reassured her. _Maybe both._

Sara let out a long breath and washed her hands, noticing with a touch of amusement that while Grissom had remembered to put fresh towels in the bathroom he'd forgotten to wipe down the mirror, and went back out. Grissom was putting out a bowl of sliced apples; a steaming dish of lasagne already sat waiting, and Sara was quite willing to bet that it was meatless. "Smells great," she said cheerfully, walking forward to take a seat. "Another secret family recipe?"

"Actually, yes," Grissom said, one corner of his mouth turning up as he sat. He scooped out a healthy portion of the dish onto her plate. "Mom had a lot of them." A hint of mischief lit his eyes. "Aunt Marie says that her entire church group pesters her for the family chocolate torte recipe, but she won't give it up."

Sara laughed, unfolding her napkin. "Smart woman."

It was so easy. _I guess I should stop being surprised._ They talked and ate and smiled, with Sara unabashed at taking a third helping of the lasagne and Grissom playfully snatching away the last of the apples. They'd pushed away the dishes and were arguing cheerfully about the merits of different soil types for the preservation of bodies when Sara realized just what was different.

_He's not hiding._

Grissom's gaze was lingering on her as it had not since they'd worked together in San Francisco, free of the constraints of the Las Vegas lab hierarchy; a little tender, a little shy, but--something in her warmed--complete. There would always be thought running behind those eyes, calculation, speculation, wry commentary much like her own mind, but Grissom's attention was centered on Sara, and he had no barriers up.

And for the life of her, she didn't know what to do about it.

"Sara?"

She blinked. Grissom's gaze had sharpened, and he was looking mildly perplexed. "Sorry," she said, a little sheepishly. "Got lost in thought for a minute there."

One brow went up. "Unfamiliar territory?" he teased.

Sara resisted the sudden urge to stick her tongue out at him, and settled for wrinkling up her nose. "Bite me," she retorted.

Grissom chuckled. "So what distracted you from sand versus alkaline soil?"

There was no way she was going to tell him what she was thinking. Instead, Sara picked up her wineglass, which still held half an inch of the fragrant liquid. "Grissom--why did you ask me over for dinner? Are you still checking up on me?"

It wasn't quite a fair question, she knew that; if nothing else, the contents of the glass she held told her otherwise. And she winced a little as Grissom's humor faded. _But I need some answers here._

"No," he replied, picking up his own glass and sitting back a little. "No, I'm not, Sara. Can't I want to enjoy your company for an evening?"

The hint of hurt in his eyes made her drop her own. "Sorry," she said again, and put the glass back down, wrapping the fingers of both hands around its stem as though it had to be held in place. "I'm a little paranoid, I guess."

Grissom sighed, the same low sound he'd made by her side in the police station, as though he were letting something go. "No, I'm sorry, Sara," he said, leaning forward and putting his hand over one of hers. "I haven't given you much reason to think otherwise."

That startled her, and she looked up. His face was drawn and sad again, and she didn't like that at all; it reminded her far too much of how he'd looked in Marina del Rey. "That's not true," she said firmly, and flipped her hand over so she could curl her fingers around his wrist. "Grissom, you've done so much for me lately--and right in the middle of your own problems, too. Don't think I haven't noticed." She met his gaze with her own, trying to set aside the attraction in favor of simple truth. "You've been a wonderful friend, and I've--I've kind of been mixed up in my own stuff." She felt her face heat a little.

His grip on her hand was reassuring. "Sara--it's okay to lean on somebody else once in a while." There was no blame in his eyes, and the strain there seemed to have eased.

She laughed a little. "Yeah, well, I just don't want to make a habit of it," she countered, trying to lighten the mood.

Grissom frowned a little, then shook his head. "Wrong lecture, wrong time," he muttered, and let her go, rising. "Remember that torte I mentioned earlier?"

He held out a hand for her plate, and Sara gave it to him, a little taken aback at the abrupt shift in the conversation. "Yeah?"

His mouth quirked again, the humor returning. "Want to try it?"

She insisted on helping clear the table, and Grissom let her make the coffee, following her out to the living area with two plates while she carried the mugs. They settled at either end of the couch, Sara kicking off her shoes so she could curl her legs underneath herself, and Grissom handed her one plate. The dark slice smelled delicious, and Sara didn't hesitate to dig in her fork.

A smile lit Grissom's face at the expression of bliss that spread over hers, and Sara thought that the hint of smugness there was quite justified. "Good?"

She swallowed carefully before answering. "No wonder your aunt is keeping this a secret, Grissom! It's incredible." She took another slow bite, losing herself briefly in the rich bittersweet flavor, then widened her eyes at him in exaggerated pleading. "Can I have the recipe?"

He laughed outright. "I thought you couldn't cook."

"For this I'll learn."

Grissom shook his head, digging into his own slice. "Sorry, no. It stays in the family."

Sara sighed dramatically, and concentrated on drowning her sorrows in the dessert, scraping up the last crumbs and wishing she could lick the plate. "Seriously, Grissom, if you ever get tired of forensics you could open a bakery on this alone." She set down her plate on the coffee table and picked up her mug.

"Better than sex?" Grissom finished his last bite, smirking when Sara sputtered into her coffee. "Here." He picked up a napkin from the table and passed it to her.

Sara wiped her face. "Care to repeat that?"

"Oh, it was a conversation I overheard in the breakroom a few weeks ago. Something about chocolate being better than sex."

"Oh, _Jacqui._ " Sara rolled her eyes, firmly suppressing any thoughts along sexual lines. _Now is not the time._ "You should know better than to listen to bored women, Grissom, you'll short-circuit your brain."

"Trust me, after years of listening to Catherine, I'm immune."

Sara snickered. "I'll bet."

Silence crept in as they sipped their coffee, the silliness dissolving into something close to contentment. Grissom seemed to be lost in thought himself, and Sara took a moment to study his face. Grief had etched new lines at the corners of his eyes, and he still looked a little tired, but she guessed that his heart was healing. Uncurling her legs, she rested her back against the arm of the couch and nudged his arm playfully with one foot. "What are you thinking?"

A slow smile spread over his face, and he set down his mug and lifted both her feet into his lap. Her eyes widened again, this time in utter surprise, as he enveloped one foot in both big hands and began rubbing the sole through her stocking. "I'm just wondering why you were staring at me."

The stroke of his thumb along the arch of her foot felt amazing, and Sara struggled to pull her thoughts together. "I...uh...I was thinking that you don't look so stressed these days."

Grissom quirked his mouth, looking down at her feet. "I feel...better," he admitted in a serious tone, though his hands didn't stop their gentle ministrations. He was silent for a moment or two, then turned his head to regard her. "Did I ever thank you for everything you did for me out there?"

"Yes, at the beach, remember?" Sara's toes flexed in his grip, and she drew her foot carefully away, but he only started on the other one. "Grissom..."

He was watching her foot again, fingers sliding over her heel. "Mmm?"

"What--what are you doing?"

His hands slowed, and stopped; one lifted to remove his glasses, and he blew out his breath in the heavy way that meant he was searching for words.

 _Great. I've screwed it up._ Annoyed at herself and expecting no more than her name from Grissom, Sara started to pull her foot back, but he grabbed her ankle, holding her in place. "No," he said, almost sharply, looking back up at her. "Give me a minute."

His gaze were intense with an emotion she couldn't quite identify. "I'm not going anywhere," she said, and Grissom relaxed a little. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly, and Sara waited, curious and concerned both at once. She hadn't meant to back him into one of his nonverbal corners. _I never learn, do I--things were going so well, and I had to go and say something._ She bit her lip, swearing silently. _He's going to close up again, push me away._

Grissom dropped his hand, laying his arm on the back of the couch and turning a little so that he was facing Sara; her foot still rested in his lap. "I'm going to be blunt here," he said, and Sara realized that a light bloom of perspiration had appeared on his forehead--his calm expression was a front. "Do you still want to...try a relationship?"

Sara blinked, not sure she had heard him correctly. Her veins flooded with adrenaline, making her skin prickle and her ears ring. "A relationship? With you?"

Grissom exhaled again, and while the thumb rubbing absently over her ankle was light, the hand resting on the couch cushion had curled into a fist. "Yes. With...me."

 _Oh...my..._ Sara's brain fizzed, fast-tumbling thoughts smoothing out into one. She pursed her lips consideringly, and pulled her foot from his grasp, tucking it back under herself again. Grissom watched it slide away, and the bones of his face seemed to sharpen.

Sara curled the other leg under as well, then rose up on her knees. Common sense told her to take the time to think about this, to consider whether she really wanted to offer him that ultimate vulnerability one more time, but she paid it no attention whatsoever, instead following the sense of complete _rightness_ that flooded through her.

Grissom wasn't looking at her; she could see the shutters coming down. Sara reached to cup his face in her hands, and his eyes snapped up to hers, startled.

She grinned. "Hell yes!"

And she kissed him.

He tasted of coffee and chocolate and surprise, and then his arms came around her hard, pulling her off-balance and into him. Sara let herself fall against him, her hands leaving his jaw to brace against his shoulders, but she couldn't bear to lift her mouth from his, not yet. One of Grissom's arms wrapped around her waist and the other hand slid into her hair, and he kissed her hungrily, with all the passion and confidence she'd always suspected was there underneath his reserve.

They shared one long, intoxicating kiss, two, three, then broke apart for air, Sara stroking the side of Grissom's face with wondering greed and realizing with some amusement that she was more or less in his lap. He laughed a little breathlessly, eyes brilliant with feeling. "And here I thought I'd have to convince you."

Sara grinned, loving the feel of his arms around her, of his fingers at the nape of her neck. "Yeah? What was the plan?"

His amusement faded, supplanted by regret. "A lot of groveling, mostly." His brows drew down in a frown that was pain instead of anger. "I told you I make mistakes, Sara. Pushing you away was one of the biggest ones."

Sara was tempted to ask him why he'd changed his mind, but the vulnerability in his face made her heart hurt, and she filed the question away for later. "You're forgiven," she told him softly, watching his eyes slide shut in relief, and then embraced him properly, lowering her head into that spot that fit it so well.

"If you change your mind I'll kill you," she added quietly, smiling. "And I know how to get away with it."

He made a sound halfway to a chuckle, and pulled her closer.

They sat that way for a long time, letting their breathing slow, indulging in the small shifts and touches that settled them against each other. Eventually Sara stirred, pulling back, and Grissom looked at her, not letting her go. "What is it?"

"My legs are falling asleep," she explained ruefully, and he laughed. She straightened out of his grasp, squirming around to put her feet on the floor, but before she could move away he put one arm back around her waist and kept her on his lap.

"Better?" he asked, drawing her head back down to his shoulder, and Sara grinned and fulfilled an old fantasy by pressing a kiss to the underside of his chin, feeling his beard tickle her lips.

"Fine," she said, ignoring the slight sense of ridiculousness at being in such a position. It felt too good to argue.

Grissom sighed, a contented sound, and Sara felt him relaxing, his muscles loosening. She blinked, almost sleepy; she was anything but bored, but being held in Grissom's caring at last was making her relax too, some long-held hardness dissolving.

Then he untangled his hand from hers where they lay knotted in her lap, running the palm slowly up her arm in a reverent caress until he reached her throat. Sara lifted her head, and he continued up to her cheek, fingers light, eyes intent as though cataloging every detail. "I have to do it," he said thoughtfully, almost as though he were apologizing, and Sara raised a brow in inquiry.

"Do wh--" and his mouth was on hers again.

It was like being fed, Sara thought under a hum of pleasure. The slow gentle kisses, the feel of Grissom's hair under her hand and his arm around her waist were filling somehow, a rich fulfillment for a heart hungry so long. She could feel his rapid pulse where her wrist pressed against his neck, and he kept making soft little sounds that sometimes became her name, and sometimes were just muffled against her skin. She was saturated with his scent. This was the man she'd believed in for so long, generous, tender; the match her instinct had realized long ago. The whole thing felt like the antithesis of her nightmares--vivid and unreal, yes, but blissful instead of horrifying.

Grissom buried his nose in her hair, and Sara absorbed his kiss on her temple with an unfamiliar joy. "You know, once you make up your mind, you don't waste time," she commented.

His chuckle ruffled past her ear. "I try."


	16. Chapter 16

_I don't know how to handle this._ Grissom stared into the dimness of his bedroom, eyes unfocused, replaying the events of the night in his head. _And at the moment, I don't really care._

His own reaction amused him, to a degree. He craved order in his life, calmness, certainty; and he'd tossed it all out the window for the reality-shifting energy that was Sara. He rolled onto his back, the sheets cool against his skin, and fished under the blankets for the cushion he'd brought in from the couch. It still smelled faintly of her.

 _I really should try to figure out how we're going to deal with this at work._ He tucked the cushion under his head, blinking. _We may be able to keep it a secret for a while, but sooner or later somebody's going to figure it out._ It was true that Grissom had finally realized that the rewards of being _with_ Sara were greater than the risks of a relationship, but the risks were still there, and he was no more eager to get either of them into trouble than he had been before.

He shuddered a little, remembering how often he'd hurt her. _And she's forgiven me._ Generous of heart, as always.

He hadn't planned on moving quite so quickly...but in a sense she'd forced his hand, and he was grateful. They'd cuddled together for well over an hour, unwilling to part just yet, but eventually the dishes got washed. They'd bumped around his tiny kitchen, veering between shyness and delight, and every so often pausing to kiss, dizzy with the realization that it was _allowed_. Then, just for the fun of it, they'd gone for a walk, Sara insisting that they needed the fresh air and Grissom insisting on holding her hand.

Eventually, Sara had gone home, abjuring him sternly to get some sleep. He'd kissed her twice more at her car, half-afraid that her leaving would reveal it all to be a dream, and while she'd finally shoved him playfully away, her fingers had clung to his and he knew she felt the same way.

His phone rang, and he slid across the bed to answer it. "Grissom."

"Hey," came the soft reply, and he had to grin. "Did I wake you?"

Sara's voice was uncertain, and he hastened to reassure her. "Not at all. I was...I was just thinking of you."

She chuckled, the rich laugh that he had always loved to hear. "That makes two of us then." She sighed. "I don't really have a reason for calling; I just wanted to hear your voice."

"It's mutual," he assured her happily, then sobered a little. "Sara--"

"Mmm?"

"Are we moving too fast?" Grissom wasn't sure how to explain his question.

But their rapport was apparently holding. "Normally...normally I'd say yes," she answered slowly, her tone thoughtful. "But, y'know, Griss, it's not like we don't know each other pretty well already."

"That's true," he acknowledged, equally thoughtful.

A moment's silence, and then-- "Do you want to slow down?"

"No," he said. Simple truth. "We can if we have to, Sara, but I don't want to."

She sighed, and it made him smile in the dimness. "Me neither."

"Good." He savored his new memories--not just the taste of her lips, but the feel of her hand on his cheek again, and the light in her eyes, so long missing. And anticipated with a curl of warm, unfamiliar delight the making of more.

"So...I guess I should go," she said awkwardly.

"Not yet," Grissom countered. "I thought you never slept."

"I do try sometimes."

He grinned at the ceiling. "Want me to tell you a bedtime story?"

And she laughed again.

* * *

"All set?" Grissom asked. Ted nodded, and Grissom handed him the keys. "Okay. If there are any problems, you know where to reach me."

"Say--say hi to Sara for me," the younger man stuttered, and Grissom smiled fondly as Ted's ears reddened.

"I'll do that," he replied. The two shook hands, and Grissom climbed back into his car, driving away from his mother's house with several backward glances.

 _Ted'll take good care of it. He's careful._ Grissom didn't need the rent money that Ted would be paying him, but he wasn't quite ready to let go of the little house he'd grown up in, and renting it to his relation gave him time to decide what to do with it.

Grissom drove slowly through the neighborhood. It had taken nearly a week, and the longest "vacation" he'd had in years, but what he planned to keep of his mother's possessions were now safely in storage. He'd made several visits to his aunt, spending quiet times mourning and remembering, and had finished all the errands he'd planned to run. The bag on the passenger seat of his car held a box of premium chocolates for the night shift team and a brace of the caramel-dipped apples that he knew Sara loved, and he was looking forward to watching her eat the very messy treats. Next to the bag, though, was a cellophane-wrapped bundle. He had one more stop to make.

After two months, the grass covering his mother's grave had settled into place and was growing thickly. The silvery-gray headstone bore only her name and dates; Robin had scorned sentimentality. Grissom crouched down next to the gentle swell and unwrapped the lilies, laying them bare on the grass, their green stems and brilliant orange petals a fitting accent in the summer sunlight. He crumpled the cellophane into his pocket and thought a moment. His mother wasn't really there, he knew that; but somehow it felt like she was watching nonetheless.

"It's okay, Mom," he finally signed to the wind and the stone. "But I miss you." Images kaleidoscoped through his head, his mother living, his mother dead; the funeral service he now remembered to a degree, and the sound of her unrestrained laughter; the wrap of her arms around him when he was small, and the mostly-unconscious, life-sustaining knowledge of her love. Ironic, and he knew it, that he should lose one and gain another.

"You wanted more for me," he went on. "I think I'm finally getting it." He squinted a little, thinking. His center of gravity had shifted with his mother's death; the trick was, as ever, finding balance again. _Fortunately for me, I have help._

His knees were beginning to complain. Grissom rose, looking down at the grave. "I love you, Mom," he added, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned away. It was a long drive back to Vegas, and his mother wouldn't have thanked him for hanging around.

When he got back to his car, his cellphone was chiming quietly in the glove compartment. He pulled it out to find that he had a new text message.

_When will you be home? S._

The smile that spread over his face felt very good.


End file.
